the window is locked.
time has no affect on neverland, at least, not since the fabric had been repaired between the isle, and the here and now. as always, years can fly by, and scenery can change, people grow old, and the ever youth’s broken, unstable mind will not notice, not until he’s forced to. the changes falling upon london don’t grasp peter pan’s attention, as world war i and even world war ii rage and then fade… multiple events searing past without the boy’s knowledge. wendy tells stories but no longer flies; so jane flies instead. and when she grows too old, peter merely listens to stories and goes to other households to fetch children’s dreams. sometimes days between visits, sometimes weeks; sometimes years. time passes and age continues, but the stories are always there to be told, and the window is always unlocked ( even if it is occasionally shut against the london fog ).
and then one day, it is not. the flat is dark inside the residence of wendy darling and no matter how many times the youth flutters about it, no window budges. fingers pry but to no avail, and stings of betrayal move through an indignant pulse until the sound of footsteps, several of them, can be heard, along with automobile motors. peter pan moves to the rooftop and that is where he sees the heard of adults and the slow moving cars roll down empty, winter-stricken streets, all heading in one direction, like cattle being herded. an intriguing sight that drives the forever-child to follow the procession until they enter a field, filled with engraved stones, and one hole in the ground. a crowd of adults, younger people, and a few scattered children, are around the hole. unfamiliar faces, mostly; except for one. unfamiliar words all on the graves, except for one that peter has learned to read, etched into the box that four men bear upon their shoulders. he waits. until people stop singing and crying. waits until the one familiar face is stepping past the small alcove of trees and that’s when peter’s hand snaps out and catches jane’s by the upper arm, pulling her out of sight with a confused, amused, and overall-ignorant expression.
“why have they put wendy in a treasure chest?” curious question to the daughter of a gone-wendy darling, from a boy who knew not of aging nor the death that such happenings bring.
a thing || @lcstgiirls