"The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it."
On a cold winter night, Peter shivered outside the closed window. "Jane? Wendy? Anyone?" He knocked on the windows but no one came. Then, it began to pour, rain soaking poor Peter Pan to the bone. "Open the window, it's Peter!" He yelled, banging his fists against the glass. Eventually a small girl no older than ten opened the window. "Hello?" She asked, looking quizzically at Peter, "Why are you flying?" Peter smiled, "May I come in?" The girl nodded, and he flew inside, and she handed him a towel. He dried off, "I fly because it's faster."
"Compared to what?" she smiled, "Walking." he responded, looking off into the distance. She nodded and he looked around. "Where is Jane and Wendy?" "Momma and Grandmother? They're next door. " He takes this into account, "Come with me, you will never grow up and never have to worry." She nods, like the impressionable child she'd always been, following. He gets her started and they get to the back yard while flying when Jane yells out the window, "You get back here right now!"
Doubt ran through the girl. What if momma grounded her for this nonsense? She must be dreaming. As soon as she finishes her thought, she crashes with a large crunching of bones. Her neck broken. Jane and Wendy rush to the girl. "Peter, you bastard! How dare you! Come back here again, see any of my family again and I'll kill you!" Jane spat with fury. Wendy watched Peter hatefully as he flew away. Girls. Who needs 'em.
He stayed in Neverland for many human years, not returning due to guilt, then he decided to fly somewhere else. Anywhere that had stories with a happy ending. Peter was determined to find it. He searched all of England at one point, but soon gave up and returned to Neverland. It was years before he'd try again.
He flew from Neverland and just kept going, eventually he saw large, bustling cities beside vast countryside. It was beautiful, something he had never seen in London. Small flickering lights scattered around the land. He remembered seeing a sign, or some such, close to the coast. It read: Welcome to the United States of America.
He found a barn and slept in the hay piled in a corner. When he awoke, a man was watching him from a distance. "Hey." He said with a small smile. This confused Peter, "Yes, I know this is hay, sir." The man laughed hard, the wrinkles on his face crinkling. He reminded Peter of a man he'd seen in England once, then he remembered. If you took away the smile, he looked exactly like Mr. Darling, Wendy's father, when Jane was a child.
"If you want to get up from there you can take a bath and change your clothes from those strange ones you have there." the man said, trying to withhold his laughter. Peter, intrigued by this man, nodded and followed him inside the small farmhouse. Twenty minutes later, he walked out in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. The man smiled sadly, "You look just like my son did when he was young..." "What happened to him?" The man took a deep breath and frowned, "He died, in a war with the Koreans." Peter didn't know of Koreans, "What is the date?" The man rubbed his chin in thought, "March 29th, 1967."
Peter had been away for much longer than he thought. "I'm sorry," Peter pleaded. "You were so kind to me but I must be going." Peter put his hand on the doorknob when the man set a hand on his shoulder. "Don't run away from your problems, go home and face them head-on." Peter began to pick up that the man had an accent. What, he didn't know, but he no longer really cared."Never." he responded, running into a nearby forest. Once he got deep enough, the sounds of being followed by the man ceased, he was alone now.
When the moon and stars burned holes in the sky, Peter returned home. To the second star on the right. Where he belonged. But not soon after, he became curious again. He vowed to no longer attempt to bring anyone to Neverland, but he still wanted to watch from the windows. To see the one thing he never had the joy of remembering. A family.
Many windows were shut. Many windows were locked. Some were incapable of opening. This did not deter Peter. He was ready to hear the stories. He peeked in windows, watching movies with sleeping children, or adults, that had their window open. He finally had the ability to see the stories, as well as hear them. This brought a great joy to Peter.
Then, he found a window that was always open. A window that always played beautiful music, singing emitting from the window, a beautiful noise. A window that sometimes told stories of good memories and things yet to come. They were beautiful stories, Peter thought, but they make one want to sob. He visited every night, without fail, but stayed beside the window. He did not want to risk being seen.
They always kept up with days on the calendar X-ing them off. Then, once, when they were asleep, he hovered in and looked at the date: January 15th, 199- Peter frowned, unable to read the last number, for it was drawn over with the reminder to 'get new strings for guitar!' Peter sighed, he knew enough. He looked at the children, buried under their covers.
You could only see their outline under the sheets; the boy's foot sticking out from under his and the girl's arm from under hers. The arm and foot twitched, Peter realized they could wake and see him at any moment. Although leaving the house that night in a hurry, he visited the house every night thereafter. But, once, they saw him too.