Chapter 1: A Very Long Time

"This is the last time I'll see you mucking about, you hear me, Darling? The last thing I need is another half-wit fooling around like a nit-wit."

Wendy nodded obediently, her eyes never lifting from the floor in fear of making Miss Carpenter even angrier than she normally was. "I understand, ma'am. It won't happen again, I swear."

Miss Carpenter snorted a laugh out of mean amusement. "It better not, dearie. Lots of other girls would give an arm and a leg to have a job such as yours, and I don't even get a word of thanks for my charity."

"Y-yes," Wendy said, bowing her head little more. "Thank you for allowing me to work here, ma'am. I really appreciate—"

"None of that," She spat, talking over Wendy. "I only gave you this job because I owed your poor fool of a father a favor. Your thanks don't mean anything to me. Just don't slack off again or it's back out the door with you, you hear?"

Wendy nodded quickly out of fear, and bowed again before exiting Miss Carpenter's office, minding not to trip over her skirts on the way out like last time. Opening the heavy metal door, a breath of stale, musty air forced itself onto Wendy's face as she made her way down the steps and back down to the factory floor. Picking up the pace, she weaved in and out of dozens of textile machines with ease, all of them buzzing and churning with gears repeatedly weaving thread together as she continued on her way.

Saying hello to a few other factory girls manning the machines she passed, she eventually made it to the embroidery room in the far corner of the building— relieved to have a little more light for her sore eyes and to escape the ever-present heat that built up inside as the day went on. Even though only a thin sheet of wood and tin separated her and the other sewing girls from the overwhelming warmth and nauseating scent of mechanics oil, it was just enough to make her work a little easier.

A few dozen others were already preoccupied, hands moving fluidly with needle and thread with skillful gestures as they embroidered flower after flower onto the big bolts of fabric that rested in front of them. Wendy walked over to her seat and began to unroll a ring of blue cotton, tying her long curly hair back before beginning her work.

"Good mornin', Wendy," The girl next to her said with a thick cockney slur. "What did Boss Lady have to complain 'bout? Hopefully she wasn't too harsh on ya' like last time."

Wendy chuckled lowly to herself, just barely audible for the other girls to hear. "No, Lennie, it's all right. Miss Carpenter's just cross with me because it didn't finish the extra ten-meter of silk yesterday like she asked me to. Something about missing a butterfly or a few leaves on the corner…"

Lennie nodded to let her know she was listening, her eyes never wandering away from her needle. "She's like that wit' the new ones. I'm sorry, dear. But, if I could, I would deck her fat, ugly mug for ya."

Wendy smiled, then began to start working on a trail of vines on the fabric stenciled in front her, silence comfortably resting in-between the sounds of occupied hands and heavy sighs.

She never thought she was going to end up in a place like this. When she was younger, Wendy imagined herself owning a bookshop, traveling the world, or even married by now, happy and content with the little life she had— a life that didn't include inhuman working conditions and bandages over her delicate hands from careless pinpricks. One thing that she wasn't told about growing up was how quickly things could go sour, no matter how hard you wished for things to remain the same forever.

It began when Mr. Darling passed away from fever on the eve of John's fifteenth birthday— it had taken him so suddenly, Mrs. Darling was left completely bedridden with grief, only Wendy and her brothers tending to the household chores and necessities as weeks turned into months. When Michael decided to join the army when he was seventeen, John left for America to study film at a school in New York like the thousands of other hopefuls who flocked there for a shot at show business. That left Wendy to take care of her mother, who was growing more reclusive and aged with the passing years. She was expected to make ends meet for them and Michael's tuition, and suddenly her dreams of grand expeditions in India and bookshops disintegrated before her eyes.

Before this job, Wendy had worked at— and been mercilessly fired from— seven different jobs within the last year and a half. From filing paperwork at London's city record building to pedaling bunches of wildflowers on busy street corners, she had found a way to make mess of everything she turned to. For her and her mother sake, this factory job had to work. Selling her childhood home and the sweet, distant memories of her family when it had been whole and happy was not an option.

Working at he factory had its perks— she got to take home extra fabric on some work nights to make new skirts for herself and Mrs. Darling, the factory girls got Christmas and Easter free from work, and— most importantly— Wendy was able to daydream all she wanted, as long as her fingers didn't stop sewing and she looked focused when Miss Carpenter walked in to check on their progress.

Once you start doing the same repetitive task over and over again, you mind cannot really help but wander off on strange ideas and idle thoughts. Most of the girls gossiped and gaggled about their lives outside of the dimly lit room, but Wendy enjoyed creating stories in her head as the noises of the factory were drowned out by her thoughts— like the ones she used to tell Michael and John before they went to sleep.

There was one story that she couldn't quite remember, however, no matter how deeply she tried to conjure it back from the corners of her mind. Much of the things that happened in her early childhood was almost a fog— too murky and thick to be able to clearly see what was right in front of her eyes— but her mother had told her that she must've hit her head running around the house with her brothers. She also said that Wendy was quite a reckless daughter before she went away to finishing school for a few months afterward. Though she couldn't quite recall the truth in her words, she didn't think anything of it. Lots of people forget the details of their younger years when they grow up. That's what Wendy thought, anyhow.

"I wish I were small again." She whispered, closing her eyes even tighter as she spoke. "I wish I never had to grow up."

"I wish I could've heard you say that a long time ago."

Wendy's eyes snapped open with the closeness of the words right against her ears and turned around the see a young man, barely even in his mid-twenties, looking at her face with an excitable expression. Getting up from her chair with a start, she looked around to find that the other women in the sewing room had left— their sewing kits and the distant sounds of flustered screaming the only indication that they hadn't just vanished into thin air.

"S-sorry, sir, but I think you might be lost," Wendy mumbled, backing away from the stranger slowly. "Miss Carpenter's office is at the other end of the building."

Without warning, the man walked up to her and began to look her up and down, assessing what he saw with an impish laugh. "Wendy, you got old!"

"How d-do you know my name?"

She looked towards the door that led to the alley behind the building, sizing up whether or not she could make it out without him following her. He started to reach out toward her arm before she made a run for it, tripping over various bolts of fabric as she jiggled the door handle in desperation.

"Bollocks, why isn't this door ever unlocked!"

"No, no, no! I'm sorry! Wendy, don't you recognize me! It's me." He said, his voice practically on the verge of tears. "Please tell me you remember me, Wendy. Please tell me you didn't forget about me…"

"I'm s-sorry, I don't know-w…" She tested the door once more time before turning around slowly. Images of people she'd seen in an asylum down the street passed through her mind as she looked at him, his hair and clothes tattered and disheveled thought his face remained clean and bright, focused on her as she moved about.

"Just look at me, Wendy," he said, raising his hands to help ease the deafening tension that was growing between them. "Just look at my face for a moment."

She met his eyes first; searching between each of hers like his life depended on it, but a deep, warm shade of brown that held something playful and curious behind them. His face seemed very elfish— high cheekbones framing a very angular face, almost mirroring an illustration in a book she once read about fairy-lore and fantasy stories. It seemed all of what she could recall, from books as well as some of her daydreams, practically matched his face.

Judging from his worn-in clothing, she would have taken him as a beggar on the street, but he just seemed to be out of place in this clothing. Something about this man seemed familiar, like trying to recall a dream she couldn't quite remember. Something about the way he said her name, how he talked, how he acted so elaborately and fluidly— it was like she'd met him in another time.

"Who are you?"

He sighed in relief, a wide smile creasing his face. "You remember me!"

"No, wait," Wendy spoke, walking firm as she made her way to the factory door. "Your face is familiar, but I honestly don't believe we've met. Now, please, let me talk to Miss Carpenter and we can—"

"You don't remember anything about Neverland, do you?"

Wendy stopped dead in her tracks, frozen in fear and utter disbelief. Slowly she turned to face him, hands and face drained of warmth and color, cautious and careful.

"W-what did you j-just say?" She stuttered, her skin crawling with the sensation thousands of insects moving about her arms and legs as she spoke. Something in her mind didn't want her to think of that place— the fantastical world that she traveled to with Michael and John that could only exist in the realm of fantasy and make-believe. It was a place that her mother wanted to bury along with her child-like antics— a place that she would send her daughter away from home to forget completely.

"Because it's real, Wendy. Everything that you remember about me— Neverland and the Lost Boys and Captain Hook. It's all real. Forget what they told you, please. Just remember what's real and what's really, really real."

The little sewing room suddenly felt aflame with heat, making her fall onto her knees on the hard, wood floor with a crash as the man rushed over to her, grabbing her gently by the shoulders to make sure she didn't completely fall over.

It slowly began to make its way back to her— memories of enchanting mermaids, the ticking crocodile, terrible pirates, adventures beyond adult comprehension, and the Lost Boys filled her head till it began to wobble and whirl around and around with no sign of stopping. In her daze, she caught a glimpse of something hanging around the man's neck, something that gleamed a metallic sheen in the dim light. It was a thimble.

A sob escaped her mouth as she leaned forward, letting her forehead rest against his collar as he wrapped his arms around her in a long-awaited grasp. A few moments of silence around her quiet tears passed between them before she had the courage to speak.

"Peter," She spoke, her words muffled by the coarse fabric of his shirt. "You finally found me."

Peter smiled a toothy grin and ran a free hand through his hair boyishly.

"Never seems to be not a very long time at all," He murmured, holding onto her tightly like she would float away at any moment. "I've been looking for you for so long now, and I've finally found you."