The blaring sound of car alarms and shuffling feet against the wet pavement echoed all throughout the streets and down long, narrow alleyways. It was a restless city, London, one that seldom ever slept, but at least that way you never felt alone, as there was always noise to fill the silence. No one truly longed for the quiet anyway, such a dreadful thing it was, no one save the widowed, old man pounding away at his alarm clock as its chime violently rattled in his ears. When the ringing finally ceased, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and placed his bare feet against the hard, icey floor. Carefully, he waded through the dreadful clutter of his chamber, stacks of old newspapers and piles of crumpled-up parchment littered about, the walls and ceiling dark and gloomy as the sky outside his window. Placing his hand firmly upon the rail, he slowly made his way downstairs and into the kitchen.

His rickety, wooden chair teetered beneath him as he reached for a small white container resting on the table. Surprisingly, he managed to pry the lid off with quite relative ease, despite his weak, trembling hands, but only to reveal the thin layer of plastic lining the bottom of the bottle. Not again, he thought. Pressing his fingers to his temples, a heavy sigh escaped his chest. He absolutely dreaded the thought of having to leave the comfort of his own home just to pick up a lousy package of pills, but he had no choice. At first, he could get away with skipping a dose or two, but his condition had grown much worse since then and it was a luxury he could no longer afford.
Throwing on his heavy coat and tattered old cap, he seized the handle of his black umbrella, quickly shut the door behind him, and shuffled down the front steps of his apartment. The sidewalks were bustling with crowds of busy people, scooting their way past one another, too bothered for any means of confrontation. He remembered a time when they used to exchange smiles and bid each other “good morning”, but all of that seemed to change the day they began smiling at the screens in their hands instead, directing their salutations toward the people on the other side of them, people whom they did not truly know, but claimed to love anyway. Things just weren’t the same as they used to be. It was as if with each passing day, the world had lost a part of itself, a small, seemingly insignificant fragment, as did he, his eyes now vacant and dull, his hair a thin layer of white, and his heart bitterly distant and cold. Lowering his head, he pushed past the lifeless figures in front of him and continued on his way.
The pharmacy was now in sight, just a few blocks ahead. He tightened his grip on his umbrella as the rain grew heavier and the wind ferociously stronger, but it was no use, as the storm now raged relentlessly. Suddenly, a swift, cold breeze gusted through the maze of tall buildings and snatched the parasol straight from his hands. Tumbling wildly through the air, it had been swept away in the complete opposite direction. The old man clamped his hand down over his hat and began chasing after it, frantically flailing his other arm about as he clawed at the handle that was already too far from reach. Thankfully, however, it had been snagged by the branch of a nearby tree before plummeting to the ground, skidding across the pavement, and eventually halting to a stop.
Bending down, he scooped it up in his hand and hoisted it back over his head. He took a moment to collect himself as he regained his footing, but his relief had been misplaced. A sudden flash of lightning shot across the sky above followed by a rolling boom of thunder that surged up from the ground and into the soles of his feet. In a complete state of fear and disarray, he turned to the set of concrete stairs on his right and hastily began his ascent. When he reached the top, he barrelled through the enormous pair of emerald green doors before him, swiveled back around on his heels, and with a single heave, quickly slammed them shut.

...

It had all happened so fast, the adrenaline still coursing through his body, but in that moment, everything stood completely still and all was silent. He moved further into the threshold after tossing his coat and hat aside, shaking the mud off of his shoes as well. It was unlike any place he had ever seen, or at least any place he had seen recently. The large interior was strangely cozy and very old-fashioned, cluttered with vintage furniture and several shelves of old antiques and priceless trinkets and what not. But, it was the books that caught his attention, rows of them, as far as the eye could see, and heavy stacks that piled high up to the ceiling. It was absolutely breathtaking. Looking around the room, however, he noticed that there was no one around to read them, let alone claim them as their own.
“Hello?” he called out, “Anybody home?”
No reply followed, but he was not surprised. Who would want to be in a place like this nowadays anyway? There were no bright, flashy screens, no fancy cars, nothing, just worn-out old books that meant not a single thing to not a single person, except him, perhaps. He pitied them, in a way, the books, but he was no different from the paper works that stood before him. He knew what it was like to feel useless and forgotten, how it felt to have so much to share, but simply no one to share it with, at least no one who cared for that matter. Outside, the rain continued to beat down and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon, so he decided to take a look around.
It indeed was a bookworm’s paradise, this place, but, sadly, he had not laid a finger on one in decades, or really read much of anything anymore. He used to be an extremely voracious reader, consuming books one after the next, as if they were the very air he breathed, for it was them that truly gave him life. The floorboards beneath him creaked uncontrollably as he pressed his back up against one of the tall, dark bookcases and slowly slid his aching body down its side. Clutching his chest as a fiery pain began to swell in his lungs, he reached his hand inside the small pocket of his shirt and pulled out a photograph of a beautiful young woman with soft, rosey cheeks and magnificent blonde curls tied back in a blue silk ribbon. No. It was her that truly gave him life or, at least, she did.
Wendy, her name was. A darling girl, undoubtedly gracious and kind, who absolutely adored everything that life had to offer, books especially. She had dreams and thoughts and ideas like no one he had ever met before, which was all the more reason why he fell in love with her. How he wished he could see her again, but it had been ten years now since the accident and just the thought of her brought tears to his eyes. Quickly brushing them away, he tucked the photo safely back into his pocket.
Time seemed to pass even slower now. Some day this was turning out to be. He stared blankly at the row of books in front of him when, suddenly, he spotted a green cover, much like the doors out front, adorned with golden trim and small vines of ivory along its binding. For what reason, he could not be sure, but it looked strangely familiar to him, like something from a dream, or rather, his past. He stood to his feet and plucked the book from the shelf before adjusting himself on the floor again. Turning it over in his hands, he already knew what story he was holding, but to be certain, he blew the thick layer of dust from the front cover. Just as I thought.
A slight smile stretched across his lips as he recalled that this was his absolute favorite story growing up and quite possibly still was. Curious and slightly intrigued, he flipped it open to the first page and began tracing his finger along the text. Things he no longer gave so much as second thought to now filled him with pure joy and contentment, things like swashbuckling pirates, buried treasure, and dashingly handsome, young heros. For the first time in years, he had heard his own laugh again as the excitement bubbled up inside of him. Page and after page, he continued to read on until, unexpectedly, a hand came down on his shoulder from above. Startled, he jumped and frantically looked up to see who his attacker was, but it was no attacker at all. Quite the opposite.

...

He could not believe what he was seeing, or rather who he was seeing.
“Well, are you coming or not?” she said.
Still baffled at the sight of her, he was at a complete loss for words, “I-it’s you. It’s really you.”
“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?” she questioned, her brow furrowed in confusion.
After all this time, after all these years, never had he felt more happy than he did in that moment right then, right there. He smiled, choking back tears, “Wendy.”
“Look, Peter, we don’t have all day,” she said as she nudged his arm playfully, “You can either stay here with your books and spend the rest of your life reading about the world outside your window or you can go and see it for yourself. What do you say?”
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hug and hold her so tightly that he would never lose her again, but for now, he simply closed the book and threw it to the ground, “What are we waiting for?”
Taking him by the hand, she helped him to his feet and together, they darted out the set of emerald green doors and into the street. To his surprise, the storm had completely cleared up, not a cloud in sight. The late-afternoon sun against his skin felt like a soft, warm blanket on a cold winter’s night. Hundreds of vibrant flowers spilled from every window sill and through the cracks of sidewalks, sidewalks filled with people, real people, striking up conversations while smiling and laughing with one another. He decided that if this was dream, he never wanted to wake up.
“Come on,” she said, “we don’t want to be late.”
He looked at her blankly, “Late for what?”
“You’ll see.”
They raced each other past lush, green parks and glittering fountains and quaint, little shops that smelled like freshly baked goods until they reached the river.
“Here we are,” she smiled.
“Um...where is here exactly?”
Gathering her silk blue dress in her hands, she positioned herself on the wall that ran alongside the water’s edge and patted the smooth, stone surface, beckoning him to join her, “The best seat in the house.”
He was unsure what she meant by this, but it mattered not to him. He sat down beside her and for the longest time, they just talked.
“I’m glad you came back, Peter,” she said, eyes fixated on the glowing skyline.
Concerned, he turned and looked at her, “But, you were the one that left me. Don’t you remember?”
She shook her head as she returned his gaze and ran her fingers through his shaggy, red hair, “I would never leave you, Peter. I never did and I never will. You wanted to grow up so badly and there was nothing I could do stop you. You were the one that left me.”
His eyes grew watery now, “I’m sorry, Wendy. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, none of it. If I would of just????if I only????”
She placed her hand against his cheek, “Hey, it’s alright, really. We’re together now and that’s all that matters.”
Tears streaming down his face, he threw his arms around her and squeezed her tightly.
“Hey, look!” she cried excitedly, “The sun, it’s setting!”
They watched as the light slowly began to diminish and a thousand shades of orange and pink and purple burst across the open sky.
She rested her head gently upon his shoulder, “what story were you reading anyway, back at the bookstore?”
“My favorite, of course,” he said, “ours.”
She laughed, “Mine too.” Jumping to her feet, she stretched out her arm toward his as she pretended to curtsy, “Well, Mr. Pan, won’t you join me?”
“Why, certainly, Miss Darling. Where are we off to? Neverland?” he teased.
“No,” she smiled, staring warmly into his eyes, “even better.”
She took his hand in hers and together, they set off into the golden beams of the horizon.