"For to have faith is to have wings."

~J.M. Barrie

Peter heard a gasp behind him. "Oh, Peter," Wendy said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom. "I didn't realize that you were in here."

He stood at her window, the glass lifted to let in the evening breeze, and looked at the night sky. He turned and grinned at her, feeling the lingering effects of melancholy. "I was just remembering," he says, leaning to sit against the ledge. "What it used to be like."

Wendy frowned. "Is everything alright?"

Peter nodded. "You know, this is where I first saw you," he said, tipping his head toward the window and turning toward it once more. "Right here, on this ledge. You were reading to your brothers. Some story about a girl in a ball gown."

"Cinderella," Wendy said, smirking. "It was one of my favorites."

Peter felt that one word tug at his heart. "Was," he repeated softly.

"Hmm?" she asked, rounding the bed.

Of course, it wouldn't be her favorite anymore. She'd outgrown it.

"Do you still read to them?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she said, sitting on the bed and lifting her hair into a pony tail. "Oh, not to John and Michael, of course. They're too grown up now. But occasionally Binks and Duke will want to hear one, and then I'll go sit with them for a while."

Peter turned, and watched her play with her hair, instantly feeling that familiar pull towards her in spite of himself.

"You're different," he whispered. He didn't say this because he wanted to hurt her feelings, though it occurred to him later that he may have inadvertently done so; rather, he said it because he felt that he could say anything to her. Furthermore, he felt like he needed to tell someone, for the words had been sitting on his shoulders all day, and he needed help to lighten their load. And he knew that he could tell Wendy anything.

She paused, her posture seeming to slump a bit. "I know," she said. After another moment, she asked, "Is that why you walked out earlier today?"

She hadn't gotten home until supper time, and even then they hadn't talked much. Peter had remained quiet, unsure of what to say now that he knew what he needed to do. It was difficult to face her now, knowing that she wasn't the same person she used to be. Moreover he felt a little guilty, having this plan to leave her again without her knowing anything about it.

"It just finally hit me," he said. "You chose to grow up."

"You knew that," she said. "You knew that I'd grow up as soon as I left Neverland."

"But I never…." He couldn't find the words. She nodded, though, seeming to know what he wanted to say without him having to say a word.

"You never imagined that I actually would," she finished for him.

He was silent.

"I'll admit, it was a shock when I first saw you, looking the way you look now," she confessed. "Maybe it's not fair, but a part of me wanted you to stay the way that you used to be forever."

"Exactly," he said. Far from being offended, he felt that she understood him completely.

She drew a short breath, and held it for a minute. "Peter," she finally said, "growing up isn't a bad thing, you know. People change, usually for the better. It's the people who get stuck in the past that usually have trouble."

"Maybe in your world," he mumbled.

"Everywhere," she asserted. "Look at Hook. Before you arrived in Neverland, he owned the island and the seas, and everyone knew him as the most powerful man around. Then you showed up. He hasn't been able to move on from what he used to be, and so he wastes his days fighting with you. And for what? Even if he were to beat you, it wouldn't matter. It doesn't change who he is."

Peter had the uneasy feeling that she wasn't talking about Hook. "You think people in Neverland waste their time?"

"No," she said slowly. "I think you spend so much time chasing after the next big adventure, repeating the same fights over and over again, so that you don't have to worry about doing something new. But Peter, it's often the new things that are the most exciting."

"But you just said it yourself—you wish I'd stayed the same."

"Yes," she murmured. "That's because I had such a lovely time all those years ago. I wanted to remember you that way forever."

"And now you're disappointed?" he asked, feeling his chest contract. A surge of pain shot through his cheeks, to the back of his eyes, and he wondered for a moment if it were possible for one's heart to actually stop beating.

She looked up at him, and they stood in silence for a long moment. "I don't know," she admitted finally. "It's just different."

He nodded. The space seemed to small once again. Rising from where he sat on the ledge, he walked over to sit next to her on the bed.

"When I saw you with Luke today," he said, sinking onto the mattress beside her, "I felt like I didn't recognize you. In my mind, you've always been mine. And then when you were with him, it was like you were someone else entirely. Someone else's."

Wendy appeared startled. "There's nothing going on between—"

"I know," he said, cutting her off. "And really, from what Michael told me, I don't think I have much room to comment one way or the other."

"Michael said something?" Wendy asked.

"My point is, it's not your fault that you've moved on with your life. In fact, it's not even a bad thing, really. I just don't think that I have any place in it anymore."

This was it. If they could have this conversation now, realize that they were too different from the people that they'd once been, then he could leave tonight. He wouldn't have to stay any longer, confronted by the image of a woman who had moved on with her life, who had left him behind. He could go back to Neverland and start trying to forget….

But as he turned to look at her, he caught himself mid-thought. Now that he was closer, that pull between them had multiplied. It connected them with iron cables, and he found himself getting lost in the blue of her eyes again. She must have sensed his bafflement, for her mouth opened in surprise, her eyes widened in…what? Fear? Hope?

"Peter," she whispered, and the gap separating them grew smaller yet. Despite everything he'd once said, despite everything he was going to say, in that moment, he caught a glimpse of his Wendy, the one so familiar to him still. No matter what Michael might have convinced him of just an hour ago, there was a part of this girl that was perfect…for him.

"Why do I feel this way?" he asked softly.

"What way?" Her gaze settled lower on his face.

"Like I'm lost when I'm with you, and lost if I leave you."

She grinned, and closed the distance between them by resting her forehead against his. "Because," she said. "You're one of the lost boys."

A surprised chuckle rose from his lips. He closed his eyes and inhaled her, fresh linen and lilac.

"Michael said that we need to get to know each other again," Peter murmured.

She snorted. "I'm going to have to have a talk with that brother of mine. He should mind his own business."

They sat for a while in that position, concentrating on each other's breathing, closer perhaps than they'd ever been. Peter felt her skin against his forehead, and realized that this sensation was new. He'd never felt her skin before…not like this. Not with the reaction that he was having now, wondering what the rest of her face felt like. Wondering if everything about her was this soft. The idea caused his heartbeat to race; it was such a foreign notion, such an unexpected curiosity. It was different—but not in a bad way.

"I like you like this," he whispered.

"Like what?"

"Just…you."

Wendy paused, then drew a breath. She pulled back and gazed at him. She opened her mouth a few times as if to speak, then closed it again.

Finally, she said, "It's strange."

"What is?"

"I feel different when I'm around you," she confessed. "I feel like I'm still that little girl that I used to be—the one who still believed in fairies and magic and all of it. Even knowing those things exist…it's hard to remember them sometimes. To believe in the wonder of it all. When you're an adult, other things just get in the way of it all. I don't think that growing up is everything I expected it to be."

"What did you expect?" Peter asked. For him, growing up had always seemed an awful concept. He wasn't surprised by her disenchantment.

Wendy shook her head. "I don't know. I thought it might be more fun, I guess. My mother always made it look so glamorous. The parties, the chores, the children. I had this picture in my head of what I wanted, and I don't have any of it."

"You wanted to go to parties?" Peter asked, smirking.

She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. "No," she said. "Well, yes, but that's not all of it. I…I just wanted to tell stories, and take care of people, and have the kind of life I always imagined that she has."

"So you didn't picture yourself becoming a waitress?"

She laughed, and Peter felt himself glow. "It's only a temporary job, Peter," she said. "And I actually quite enjoy it. But no, that's not what I want to do with the rest of my life."

"You want to tell stories," he said, basking in the realization that his Wendy was still here.

She hesitated, then nodded. Peter saw something in her eyes. A question, perhaps, lingering just below the surface.

"Can I show you something?" she asked.

"Of course," he said automatically.

Apparently having reached a decision, she drew a deep breath and stood up. Stooping down, she fished under her bed for a moment, before rising again and sitting on the bed. In her arms was a package, not much bigger than a shoe box, with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the top. It was old, from the look of the thing, the edges tattered and worn.

She traced the outline of the tower with her finger, deliberating for a moment, then opened the lid. Inside, Peter saw pages upon pages of handwritten notes. They were nestled, one atop the other, as though time had caused them to melt into each other.

"What are these?" he asked.

"They're my stories," she said. She took a page out of the box, then began fishing deeper, toward the bottom. "I began writing them ages ago, right around the time you first left. At first, it was because I didn't want to forget you…or what we saw. So I wrote it down. But I couldn't remember everything clearly, so I started making things up. After a while, I began writing about what I wished would happen. You would come back, and we would explore London together, then I'd go back to Neverland with you. I wrote down all the adventures we would have, and while I was writing it was like you were here with me again."

Peter was taken aback. All day, it had been as though Wendy had moved on, having completely forgotten about him. But she'd been thinking about him all along.

"Will you read them?" she asked, her voice gentle and uncertain.

He didn't reply for a moment, too consumed by shock to process her request. There were hundreds of pages in the box. She had missed him almost as much as he had missed her. And suddenly, the heart which had felt on the verge of breaking just moments ago began to soar.

"Peter?" she whispered.

"Of course," he said, feeling lighter than air. It was like he was himself again in that moment, the little boy who stood atop the Big Ben and crowed with glee. "I'd love to read about our adventures."

She grinned, and withdrew a couple of yellowed pages from the bottom of the box. Carefully, she handed them to him. "This was the first one I wrote," she said.

He couldn't even look at it. He was too distracted by her, by the way she spoke, the way she moved. By the way she'd thought about him, too.

A subtle knock sounded at the door. "Peter, darling," Mrs. Darling said, opening the door slightly. "I've got the couch made up for you. Downstairs."

"Thank you, Mother," Wendy said. She grinned at him. "Take it with you," she whispered.

He nodded, then walked downstairs, feeling as though he were in a fog. Once he'd settled in for the night, he picked up the pages again and began reading. It was called, "The Boy Who Could Fly."