Peter Pan.

The name itself ushers adventure—the clash of rusted swords, the salty wind, the illuminating glow of pixie dust. The name prompts a longing to battle pirates, soar the skies, and—most of all—to live whilst never aging a day. Most everyone has forgotten, ridiculing the name as merely a figment of the imagination, a childhood dream. That is, everyone but the Darling children.

…Or rather the Darling teenagers. Wendy had since flourished into an alluring young woman of sixteen. Her auburn ringlets extended just above her lower back, her blue eyes glimmered—and if possible, her storytelling grew even more passionate. Yet her audience diminished; children at school dismissed her as a hopeful loon. Only Michael and John still regarded her legends as truth. Wendy could tell, however, it wouldn't be long before the murmurs of reality whisked them away. They were men now, not children, and respectable gentlemen have no time for childhood rubbish. John, edging on fifteen, grew increasingly doubtful of her stories, turning towards science and math instead. His spectacles framed an upturned nose, and his brown hair spread flat, peeking around tanned ears. Calculus and physics textbooks typically were seen beneath his muscular figure. Once, during a tale of Tinkerbell's adventures, he questioned Wendy, starting "Why, fairies don't-", before Michael abruptly swiped at him.

Michael, a shy boy of twelve, still believed; the innocence of his youth had just begun to fade. Golden locks shone above chocolate brown eyes, and his high cheekbones showcased a delicate tracing of freckles—it was his creativity that rejuvenated him, illuminated his handsome spirit. And although he was dreadfully skinny, he could probably outrun Pan himself—but he started to feel he would never find out.

The Darlings severely hoped Peter Pan would return. Every night, even in the winter, they left the window wide open, peeking from beneath the crisp sheets with wide eyes, wishing to see his shadow upon the nursery floor. But he never came. Not once. Wendy still waited, anticipating his arrival, clinging desperately to slipping faith. "He will come tomorrow," she said. "Tomorrow," she said the day after.

After leaving Neverland, only a day passed before she realized her mistake. Mr. Darling insisted, upon their return, that Wendy scope out a suitor. Man after man approached her doorstep, entreating her with lavish gifts and promises. But Wendy distinguished their fictitious smiles and excessive manners—behind their glazed eyes existed a passionate burning, an evil desire to possess her. One moment of privacy, and her suitors might lap up the opportunity, kissing her feverishly with sweaty tongues. She never gave them the chance; every suitor was turned down. She wanted Peter. With Peter she felt pure, innocent, a pitter-patter from the deepest corners of her heart. With Peter…she felt whole.

And so, on a blistery August night, London dipped into a placid repose. But one girl, a darling girl, sat upon the windowsill, eyes scanning the starry sky—particularly the second star from the right.