There's something to be said about not wanting to grow up. It's not the everlasting youth or the prospect of no responsibility. It's more than that. It's the eternal possibility of time. But that's not why I want to return.

Thoughts run rampant across my blank mind, creating wild adventures of their own, visiting the usual dark places. I don't pay them any attention, not tonight. I focus instead on the window above me.

I watch it on my back, from my spot in the dark alleyway behind the orphanage. It's the last thing I see before I close my eyes and the first sight that greets me in the morning. It's a double-arched window with a small railing housing overgrown plants. There's a shabbiness to it, but perhaps that enhances my fondness. After all, there's a shabbiness to me too.

I have a thing for windows, well for this window.

I suppose it's because of a window that this whole thing started. The window of our second-floor nursery where my parents often put the three of us to sleep –my brothers and me. It was always latched shut. Always except for one late autumn night. I remember it so well –remember the sweet smell of crisp summer air wafting through the open window. We had a flourishing ivy vine that had taken to crawling up the side of our brick house. It sprouted delicate purple flowers that smelled like geraniums.

My brothers and I stayed up late that night; John and Michael were creating a homemade map that led to famous buried treasure. They always put too much stock in mother's bedtime stories. Suppose I feel differently about it now.

Nana, our Newfoundland pup, had just left the nursery for her small crate in the downstairs den. Moments after she left, the double-paned windows flew open. I felt a strong gust of wind that I later learned to be a phantom shadow.

I learned this shadow would search London all through the night in the hopes of finding unlocked windows and by chance the unassuming children inside them. I would later learn that an open window was an invitation. And as I've already said the window –our window –was open.

That was the first night I met Peter Pan. Oh he was marvelous, such a playfully mischievous spirit that promised adventure. You see, there's an innocence to him that makes you trust him without question. Then again children will trust almost anyone without question.

So there I was, 12, in my blue dressing gown, agreeing to fly off to some foreign land filled with mermaids and pirates and faeries and an Indian Camp. John was skeptical for all of five minutes, until Peter told him about Captain Hook's buried treasure.

I know I should have been the responsible one –the one who knew better. And looking back I think maybe I did. If only Peter hadn't been so inviting. And so I obliged my brothers, faces round with jubilant glee, and took Peter's hand as he led me from that second-story window. Little did I know that along with my plush white slippers, I was leaving my life as I knew it behind on the windowsill. 

For a brief fleeting moment I looked back and watched as the window became smaller and smaller, the golden light from our nursery spilling through the open curtains and bathing the quiet London street in yellow.

After that I never looked back. We were flying after all! Peter wove us in and out and down and around all the rooftops in London. Already the adventure promised more than anything I had hoped. We landed on the clock tower to rest, and as the iron hands chimed midnight the clouds parted and it appeared on the sky's horizon.

It was the first time I ever saw the second star to the right. I knew right away it wasn't ordinary. It didn't shine or twinkle like the rest; it glowed. It pulsated like a heart pumping and I knew right then it was a life force of its own.

Neverland has a heart. 

We touched down on the forest floor and Pan lead us to his hideout at Hangman's Tree. He introduced us to the Lost Boys, a band of mix-matched children ranging from six to sixteen. Together we fought Captain Hook on the Jolly Roger, met Indians and mermaids and even helped save the faery Tinker Bell. Our time spent on the island of Neverland felt like a year's worth of adventures wrapped up in three days.

And then came time to leave.

I brought it up on the third night, after I told Peter I could not stay to be the Lost Boys' mother. He was unhappy, you see. Not many people refused him. In fact, he never let anyone escape Neverland. I would find out later that the only ones who ever made it back from Neverland –the ones who made it home –had dreamt their way off the island.

Realizing I would have a hard time escaping, I sought help from Tinker Bell. She disliked me, as she was jealous of my friendship with Peter. She agreed all too eagerly to arrange for me and my brothers' safe departure. Of course I should have known better that she would never betray Peter Pan. At the last second, she only sent me back. She kept John and Michael and delivered them to Pan.

I arrived in London and found myself alone, without my brothers, and unable to explain to anyone where they had gone, unable to explain why they'd never be seen again. I wasn't even prepared to account for my own three-day absence, only to discover after arriving on my windowsill that it was the same night I left.

I made my decision to leave home. How could I stay, having left John and Michael behind? What would my parents say? I knew they would blame me. I was the oldest and therefore I was responsible. I am responsible.

I kept tabs on my parents, checking in every now and then, but always from afar. I never let them see me. It was painful and at times impossible, but I was strong. I knew I needed to be strong if I ever wanted a chance to return to Neverland.

After a while they moved away, ridden with guilt and grief over their lost children. Perhaps they never sold our home, secretly wishing that we would one day return to it. And so our once grand terraced house now stands abandoned, an empty shrine to the children who abandoned it.

I still hear whispers of it on the streets. Whispers of us. Rumors of what happened –rumors of what became of the three children that lived in the quiet house in Bloomsbury –rumors of what happened to the Darlings.

It's been six years since I left Neverland, six years since I've seen my brothers, and six long years that I've spent searching for a way back.

My only fear is time, as it does not stand still in London. I turn 18 in two months and something deep in my heart is telling me once that milestone passes I'll never find my way back. And there must be way back.

///

I mentioned there's a certain untidiness to me, well to my appearance at least. The streets of twentieth century London are not a kind place to a seemingly orphaned 17 year-old girl. Having long since outgrown my pale blue nightgown and with little to no means, I've been forced to improvise. The orphanage was kind enough to supply white trousers, albeit a bit oversized and most likely for boys. They gave me a faded cerulean blouse, large enough to swim in, as well. It's not so bad now that I've tied it up in the back.

It's been a good time since I've seen my reflection properly. I know there is pallor to my porcelain face and that my once groomed strawberry blonde locks are now straggling and unkempt. My curls are piled high into a knot on the top of my head now, held up by a blue ribbon from my old dressing gown.

The orphanage feeds me every now and then, but only when I show up. On other nights, when I'm off scouring for open windows, I skip dinner altogether. I don't mind so much as it helps me stay in shape. It helps me stay smaller and I'm able to fit in more alleyways and hidden nooks and crannies.

Like I said, it's not a kind place to a seemingly orphaned 17 year-old. I'm always on guard. Every noise is a threat, every passing person an enemy. The clanking of cars against the tracks sounds like pirate swords and the silhouettes of people walking by remind me of Indians. Whenever I see a dark shadow in the night, I'm reminded of him –of Peter Pan.

There was a time when I would have thought I'd never last. I wasn't made to be a vagrant orphan. I was Wendy Darling, a proper lady-in-training. I wasn't bred to be on my own like this, but the streets have hardened me.

The last six years have not just been spent daydreaming about pirates and mermaids, no.

I watched and waited. I followed the disappearances of children around London. Most times the children showed up after a day or two, regaling adults with stories of wild adventures in faraway lands. The adults played it off as imagination, but I knew better.

Then every now and then there would be a true disappearance –a child who did not come back. And I knew they were the ones who would never return. The ones who would never be seen again. The ones Peter Pan kept.

I can't think about Peter anymore tonight. Tonight I need to rest. Tomorrow I begin searching windows in a new sector in my old home of Bloomsbury.

My eyes flicker back to the window above me. I suppose the thing I love most about this particular window is it's always closed. There's no chance for spirits lurking in the shadows to slide inside it. This window is not an invitation. It's closed and it's comforting.

I shake thoughts of Neverland and windows from my mind, urging a dark calm to settle instead. I cannot focus on such things right now. Darkness is preferred.