A/N: AGH I WANT TO GO TO NEVERLAND. For full experience, listen to the Peter Pan 2003 Flying piano cover by Luke Walsh. Now this you can do. It doesn't even have any lyrics.

Review! I COMMAND YOU! Oh, and comment your favorite song I've suggested so far. Maybe send me some Peter-Pan-y/Neverland-y ones I've never heard before. Really. That'd be amazing.

Run, run lost boy

They say to me

Away from all of reality

Neverland is home to lost boys like me

And lost boys like me are free

"You are a young woman now, Cara, and the silly belief in a flying boy should be beyond you."

"I'm no young woman, Miss Leanne," replied Cara, smiling. "I am but a young girl. You are only as old as you make it." she grinned teasingly in the other woman's direction. Miss Leanne's mouth tightened.

"You are fifteen years of age. Practically ready to be married!" said Miss Leanne through her teeth. "Not a-a—lost girl, or whatever you call it."

"Lost boy," she corrected. "There aren't any lost girls. I would feel quite alone. There aren't many differences between girls and boys in Neverland either, we're all the same." said Cara thoughtfully.

"You are fifteen. Surely, at this age, this nonsense would sto—"

"And anyway, Peter looks at least sixteen." countered Cara. "Really, Miss Leanne, it shouldn't bother you so. My beliefs don't interfere with my studies."

"Looks? Looks?" Miss Leanne rubbed her temples. "You don't mean to tell me that you've seen Peter Pan!"

"Of course I have!" said Cara. "He is real, Miss Leanne. How could he not? How could humans enjoy one perfect moment of youth without Peter Pan?"

"This conversation is over." said Miss Leanne angrily. "You will close your window, or there will be nothing for dinner tonight!"

A flash of anger appeared for a second in Cara's eyes; and then it was gone, as if it had never existed.

"Yes, Miss Leanne." she responded meekly, turning from the woman and hurrying upstairs.

Instead of going to her own room, however, she turned to her mother's.

Margaret Darling lay awake in bed, reading by lamplight. "Good evening, dear." she said tiredly when Cara came in the door. "I do hope you haven't been fighting with Miss Leanne."

Cara shrugged. "I tell her I'll do things, but I don't actually do them. It's not like she notices, anyhow."

"Cara," her mother said in amusement. "What does she want you to do now?"

"She wants me to close The Window." replied Cara, her hands trembling with anger. "How dare she?"

Her mother's smile faded.

"Cara... you don't really still believe in him, do you?"

Cara felt shocked, as if her mother had hit her. "What? Of course I do, don't you? It's a Darling tradition!"

Her mother shook her head. "I-I'm afraid it's just a silly old tale," she said, smiling weakly. "Peter Pan is just a lovely fairy story, like Cinderella or Snow White."

"Except he's not," said Cara, trying to keep her temper in check. "He's real, Mother, I've seen him! He wrote me once, long ago—"

"Cara—"

"—I can show you his handwriting, really, look—"

"Cara—"

"—he wears skeleton leaves, just like you said—"

"Cara!" her mother shouted, suddenly.

Cara stopped midsentence, staring at her mother, wide-eyed.

"It's only a story." said Margaret Darling, deadly calm. "Only a story. Now, I think it is time for you to grow up. Close the window, Cara."

Cara felt as if her mother had betrayed her. "But Mother, I can't—"

"You will." said her mother quietly. "You will, or I will close it for you. And lock it."

There was a long silence.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Cara pleaded.

Her mother was quiet for a long time.

"Peter Pan isn't real, Cara. I can't let you keep living a lie."

Cara shook her head, her breathing as erratic as her sick mother's. Cara closed her eyes. "Goodnight, Mum."

Her mother didn't reply, just closed her eyes.

Cara left.

She hurried into her own room, gently shutting the door behind her.

She didn't care if Miss Leanne didn't give her dinner, she wasn't hungry.

Ever since her mother had been sick, Miss Leanne thought it her duty to stay at their home and take care of them. Not because she was kind and helpful, but because she was selfish and wanted to sell the house once Margaret eventually died. Cara didn't believe in the idea of her mother's death, and plainly showed Miss Leanne that she didn't.

Every week, a doctor would come in to see how her mother was doing, since she didn't want to be moved to the hospital. Every week, her mother would get more and more tired, and more and more sad and emotional. She got angry at Cara all the time, and Miss Leanne, and the doctor. She seemed to relive all her worst moments in a second. Cara sometimes thought that if the doctor didn't come, and her mother spent more time out in the sunshine, she'd automatically get better.

Cara gazed at the open window, contemplating.

"Don't worry, Peter," she whispered, as if she and the sky had a big secret. "I won't close the window, never. I don't care what that old witch says. Or my mum."

No answer, as usual. But this time, it made her amused, instead of sad. "Goodnight, my dear Peter." she told the moonlight.

She changed quickly from her day clothes to her nightgown, taking a moment to read the old piece of paper tucked in the pocket. It was the note from Peter from long ago, the note that convinced her that she was not crazy, not insane. There was a Peter Pan, and he thought she was brave.

As she tied her hair as she usually did, in two braids, she hummed. And soon she was singing an old song her mother used to sing to her, a song so sad and sweet and serene it pressed into the ears of its listeners and planted itself, growing a blue flower of Neverland. And that is how children know of the pirates and mermaids, because they have heard the true song, and they have believed.

Cara began to spin gently about her bedroom, lost in her own melody. And suddenly she stopped, for there it was. The shadow of Peter Pan.

She wished with all her heart that he would show himself in his own body, not just a figment of it. The form bowed, and offered his hand, as if asking for a dance.

Hesitantly, she put out her own hand, and as she watched in amazement, her shadow took the hand of his shadow. A warm shock ran up her wrist all the way to her shoulder, and trickled through her veins like gold. She smiled with delight, and when the shadow spun her, she felt as if she was really and truly looking into eyes like diamond and a smile that woke the morning.

And then there was music, music so beautiful there was none like it on earth, but seemed like something tangible from heaven. Music from a pan flute, floating from her rooftop down into her window.

Truly, if you have heard the fairy music, you will never forget it, and no other song will ever seem pleasing to you again.

It is the kind of music that fills you up with magic, coursing through your fingers and lighting up your smile. It lets you stretch out your hands and feel the music's power, the power of joy, the power of wonder. A kind of power that makes you out to be invincible, for if you have this music, you are strong, and wild, and free. You are invincible.

And you will look up to the sky and see the music whirling up to brush against the moon, and you will breathe, and you will smile.

And Cara smiled.

She smiled, and she tentatively reached out her arms and flew. She flew through the air, and joined in the empowering chorus of the music's strength.

And the tears on her heart, weathered by years of rain, got a taste of sunlight, and the tears turned to diamond, diamond so very like his eyes. She did not have to cry anymore, for she was invincible.

And suddenly she gasped, as if she had opened her eyes too quickly, and there was no one there. No music, no shadow. That couldn't be true— for her eyes had already been open, and she had seen it.

But her heart was leaping, and she felt so real, so wholesome, that she could do nothing but stare into the infinite sea of stars and wonder what had happened. Her entire body tingled, as if she had been flying, but it couldn't be—could it? Was flying possible?

She hadn't the slightest idea if she'd been dreaming while she was awake, her mind was in a completely different setting now, as if she'd seen through his eyes, his eyes which saw a year as a second, as every moment as one worth spending in joy and showering in freedom. Everything seemed to have been made of gold, and she had been so lost in them, that she had completely forgotten everything that she had ever known.

She took a deep breath, her hair in disarray and her throat parched.

Slowly, as if in a dream, she climbed into bed, still feeling lighter than a feather. Her toes tingled, as if they knew they didn't belong on the ground anymore.

"Oh, Peter," she whispered in wonder, and lay down and closed her eyes. Soon, her breathing was even, and her dreams were even lovelier than usual. Nothing is lovelier than a dream after listening to the music of the fairies.

If she had stayed awake, she would have heard more, the warmest, sweetest sound the world had ever heard.

His laughter.