There was a drizzle in the air and magic beneath the lights. The brittle old man let out a deep sigh and looked out over the glistening river, infinite circles falling upon each other. He had a faraway look and that infuriating secret smile. ​

“Stories are like stars,” he said, his voice hoarse with age yet there was a resilience in it that hadn’t quite faded. “Once you light the fire, you will have to wait it out.”

​Kate was all too familiar with the old man’s whims and merely gave him a side-eye and waited for him to continue. There was something about the silence that sent a chill down her spine. A true story, she had told him. I want you to tell me a true one. The cane in her grandpa’s hand went tap-tap-tap against the cobbled stones turned a garish orange in the artificial light of the fluorescent streetlamps that lined the promenade.

​“Once upon a time, there was a world without wars, a time when evil was not the common word to describe it. And all the men went about in high hats. It was an exciting time. Everyone looked to the future as if the bright era of humanity lay but a stone throw away. Little did we know then what was to come. How different life might have been… I believe it was…” he trailed off and seemed to search for something in the waters.  “Yes. The opening night of Peter Pan. London. 27th of December 1904. And Barrie himself had invited an orphanage to come and laugh.” ​

“I think you’re confusing it with Finding Neverland,” Kate interjected.

​“Hush. They’re just leaving. A chaos of rustling skirts, tangled hair and laughing smiles. And fairies all around.”

“I do believe in fairies, I do, I do!”

​The little voices of a dozen children echoed and mingled with the city noises. It had been an excellent evening, one of a kind, and dear old James’s ploy had paid off. The children had laughed and laughed until the adults had remembered how to giggle and have a jolly good time. The characters had flown, and the children had flown with them. They still did, in their minds. They were still Wendy, and Peter, and the Lost Boys, Captain Hook and pirates and Tiger Lilly. They were the children who thought happy thoughts and believed in fairies and fought wickedness and crowed. If there was such a thing as magic it was there; in the theatre that held worlds, in the nearby park where the city disappeared as if far, far away.

It was a shortcut they used all the time, but one that came alive in the twilight gloaming glow of this particular London evening. ​The principal of the orphanage was a certain Mrs. Philipps, stern and perpetually sour, dressed all in black, a snug dress that covered her from neck to toe. It wasn’t new, but well taken care of. Like the woman herself, one could dare to say. She was the shadow of many people’s lives. ​

The fog was rolling in as was its custom, so it wasn’t anybody’s fault really that they did not see the man until he was sprawled on the path right in the midst of all the children. One moment a silhouette like the one you see against the sunset on a bridge, the next as real as you and I. The lock of his briefcase snapped open with a bang and the chaos that followed was not unlike a tornado.

The principal shouted and banged her foot. Tiny hands chased papers and pens. A cane banging tap-tap-tap against the pavement to no avail. The sweet voice of the woman holding the briefcase as its belongings found their way back. ​Meanwhile, the man scrambled to his feet with a gaze that darted all over the place. ​

“Whoa! Careful!” He spotted a little girl with a notebook, turning it over and over despite not having learned her letters yet. “No, give me that! Thank you. Ta.” ​

Quite satisfied that neither hands nor ground had anything that was his, he adjusted his hat and took a deep breath. His hands left big muddy smears on his tanned suit, but that was the least of his concerns. ​

“This way! Hurry up! I said, hurry up!” the voice of principal Philipps was as cold as her appearance. “Line, children, make a line. LINE! NOW!” ​

“Do as she says,” the young woman said, shooing the last of the children into the line behind the woman waving wildly. ​

She had a soft voice, the young as gentle as the older was stern. That was the first thing the man noticed about her. The second was her smile. It was of the kind that held a secret in the corner of the lips. He hadn’t truly known what James had meant by that until she had seen her there, herding children like a pro. At last the last of the residents of the orphanage started skipping away, disappearing down the path winding its way through the park, chanting like the lost boys of Neverland.

Angela hesitated and turned to the man, holding out the briefcase to him. ​“I am so sorry, sir. Are you alright?” ​

Mark coughed and took it from her, patting it. “Quite alright, thank you. Those little things should have a signal-system. ‘Attention, attention, rather small child coming your way!’ Right…” He faltered, his eyes darting from side to side. He made a vague gesture in the general direction the children had disappeared to. “They are all yours?” ​

“Mine? Good God, sir, no. Not all of them,” she said and winked. “I think that should be everything.” ​

“Much obliged.”

​“Good evening then, sir.”

​“Good evening, miss.”

He tipped his hat and she inclined her head, like a proper lady and gentleman do before they part. Their winter breaths painting pictures on the moonlit air.

Kate laughed but couldn’t help noticing that her breath too showed itself, despite the air still being mild, it being autumn and all. She shrugged it off. Winter was just around the corner. ​

“What?” her grandpa asked, slightly affronted by her outburst. ​

“You can’t tell a story straight, can you?” ​

“Not with all these interruptions, I can’t,” his words were harsh but there was a glimmer in his eyes she hadn’t seen in quite a while. He leaned forward on his cane. “Come, come, Kate. Where do you think Hollywood gets it from in the first place?” ​

Grudgingly she bit her tongue against all the arguments that rose inside and indicated for him to carry on. But the story was way ahead of them now and neither one prepared. The rain-soaked cobblestones merged and shifted into wooden walls and floor with far too many cots to properly fit in such a dainty little room.

Angela poked her head through the door with a boo! sending the children scurrying off into the squeaky beds, giggling their heads off. She tucked them all in with the love and care they would all remember her by. Kissing each of their foreheads, and whispering goodnight, stroking their hair till the Sandman took over the watch. As every night, she came last to little Tim. A boy who had lived out his entire eight-year-old life in the orphanage. He had been found in the park, the principal had said, no note or nothing. ​

“What do you got there, Tim?” Angela wondered, something bright catching the flickering light. Quickly he tried to hide it. “Tim. Give it to me,” she demanded. ​

He did so for there was no point in arguing. It wasn’t that Angela ever yelled at them like the principal did, but they had heard her once or twice raise her voice and after much debate no one knew what it took, and no one cared to find out. So it was with trepidation he watched her turn the silver watch over in her hands, inspecting it.

​“I just found it on the ground. Honest!” ​

“When?”

​Tim bounced up on his feet. “It was shining so prettily. Then I thought I saw a fairy, but it was only a butterfly, but it was huge! And I’m afraid I just quite forgot it was in my pocket. You see it was THIS big and I thought it might come from Neverland and…” ​

“Tim for God’s sake!” She held up her hands, then seemed to think better of it. She sighed. “Go off. To bed. Go on.” ​

“You’re not…?” he began. ​Instead of answering she just picked him up and put him into bed, tucking him in firmly. A little too firmly, if you asked him. Tim tugged on her sleeve as she was about to turn. ​

“They won’t leave me alone, you know,” he whispered, eyes downcast. ​She just smiled and patted his cheek.

“You have to be firm with them, don’t give them a reason to taunt you.”

​“No, no, no, no, I meant the fairies. I swear they're real, they talk to me all the time even when I tell them to SHUT UP!” ​

Some of the others groaned.

“Sch, keep your voice down,” Angela chastised. ​

“But I promise...”

​“I know,” she said. He couldn’t describe why a chill went down his spine, or why his heart pounded a little faster when he met her gaze that night. “I know, sweetie.” ​

“They're from Neverland, you know.” ​

Angela did know, or so she kept saying in the days that followed. There was something magical about it all. The way that stories leaped off the page to join them in the real world. After a little while she managed to put young Tim to bed, leave, and close the door. She turned around and saw principal Philipps watching her from the shadows, running a cloth over a plate that was clean a long time ago. Her heart leaped into her throat. The candle rocked, throwing living shadows onto the walls. ​

“You haven't told him, have you?” the older woman asked primly. ​Angela tried to catch her breath. “No, of course not.”

​“Anything else?” ​Her hand gripped the watch hiding deep within her skirts.

“No, nothing.”

​“You can go now, miss Angela.”

​“Yes, ma'am,” she replied, curtsying slightly. “Good night, principal Philipps.”

To which the sour old woman had nothing to add.

The old man chuckled, a nostalgic look in his eyes. He held his hand out to feel the drizzle in the air, nodding to himself. ​

“Few people were out and about when Angela walked home through that chilly night. A few men, a couple of leeries, and beggars. She took the same path every night. Down the alleys until the riverbank, then north. She’d pause on this very spot, looking out across the waters. Of course, it was a different sight back then. Smellier sure, but prettier.” ​

Kate looked around, the hair on her neck standing on end. For a moment it seemed as if the London of hers and that of Angela’s nearly eighty years gone melted together.

​“Did she live alone?” she wondered, more to shake the sensation of curious dread than out of curiosity. ​“Quite alone,” her grandpa answered with a small sigh. “But she never was quite alone. Not even in the dark.” ​

“What do you mean?” ​

“They’re here.”

​“Who?” ​

The old man pointed to the bridge that ran across the river on their right, where a man stood staring at them. He raised his hand to wave but seemed to think better of it and let it drop. He continued walking, his shoulders tenser than before. Kate wanted to remark upon it but when she looked it seemed as if the old man was staring at someone on his left, someone only he could see. There was a pain in his eyes. A sad little smile. A true story, she had asked. This story was unlike any story she had ever been told.

Where the old man with his worn-out cane stood, Angela had stood so many times, so long ago. Desperate, hair undone, a shiver in her voice and not just from the cold. ​

“I know, but what can I do? Try controlling your own heart for a change!” she argued with the ripples of the Thames and the stars barely visible above. “It's my life, butt out will ya? Yes, I know, I know alright? Why I kept it?” Angela paused for a moment. “Tim needs new clothes, and I have run out of fabric. No. No. I'm supposed to give it back, remember? I can't just steal it. God, what's up with you today? It’s nothing. What? What door? Oh!” ​

What door? Kate wanted to ask but her mouth had no voice, rivers don’t have doors! ​But there was a door next to the river that was no river, but a painting hanging on a wall. Angela opened at the insistent knock and Mark was standing there. He looked a little off, a little pale, his smile a little too wide. ​

“Hi,” he said. ​

“Hi,” came Angela’s careful reply.

​“James. Actually. No, I'm Martin. We met earlier.” ​

“Yes, I know. What are you doing here?” ​

“I followed you.” ​

“What?” ​

“I want to kiss you.” ​

“What?”

​He did.

​“What!?” Kate exclaimed. She was pacing back and forth and absolutely cold to the core. “Grandpa!” ​

“I’m sorry, I seem to mix up the threads. That was a dream she had. Yes. Apologizes. It was so long ago, I can’t seem to tell what was real and what was not.”

​“Ok, so Angela had some issues…,” Kate said, still pacing. “What about Mark? Please tell me he was at least somewhat normal.” ​

“What is normal, Kate?” the old man asked. “This is not a story about normal. It’s a story about people. It’s about the truth of the labyrinth. It’s about two stars that shone so bright that there was no question that their meeting wasn’t fated.”

​She leaned against the railing and looked at him. Her foot tapping against the cobbled stones. ​“He was married, wasn’t he?” she deduced. ​

Her grandpa nodded. “To Rebecka. Foul woman. Jealous. Not without cause.” ​

“How do you mean?” ​

The old man placed a finger against his lips. “Listen.” ​

The drizzle had soaked everything but neither of them seemed to mind. He met her gaze and there they remained a while, while the silence stretched out like an ocean to all sides. And within that ocean voices rose and fell. ​

“Mark?” a woman’s voice called out, breaking the silence. ​

Mark put his keys back into his pocket, the jingling amplified. “Yes!”

​Kate jumped and looked around but there was no one nearby except the two of them. The old man hadn’t moved a muscle, his gaze still intense, locked at her.

“​Did anything happen today?” Rebecka asked, as clearly as if she had been standing next to them. ​There was the sound of something hitting the floor. Thud.

“Apart from the opening? Nah. Got knocked over by some children,” Mark said with a laugh. ​

“Bloody little creatures,” Rebecka sneered. “They probably wanted to steal your watch. You know I don't want you to wear it out in public like that.”

​“’It was our opening night!’ Mark said,” the old man told her. “’It’s perfectly…’ And he realized it was gone.” ​

“Oh sugar,” came a curse from within the drizzle. ​

“Who was that?” Kate demanded even as the laughter stuck in her throat. ​She spun around, scanning for speakers, hidden people, but there were few places to hide in these parts. A fog was creeping in on them. It was usually something she found comfort in, but now it felt like a threat. Her heart quickened. The old man remained still. ​

“Nothing, darling!” Mark’s voice came from the fog. ​

“It was nothing at all,” her grandpa shrugged. ​“That’s what he said.”

“They were lying, weren't they?” ​

“How do you know?” ​

Kate shook her head. “It's a story. It's a typical rom-com: girl meets boy, boy turns out to be married, lies to girl, girl dumps him, boy wins girl back. All through an intricate web of lies, misunderstandings, conflicting goals, desires, and a complicated, traumatic past suddenly revealed.”

​He considered that for a while. “The walls have heard it thousands of times and I've never heard them talk back.” He paused and shrugged. “Well. Sometimes.”

Morning came as mornings do but there was something special about this one. The sun was out, the light made it past the windowpanes. When Angela had arrived, Philipps had merely taken one look at her and wondered if she’d had a rough night. Angela tried to brush it off, as was her way, but gratefully accepted the pouch. ​What pouch? Kate asked but her grandpa hadn’t wanted to elaborate further. The chores were done, one of the older children had taunted little Tim with his obsession with fairies but Tim, clueless and brave as only a child can be had pulled himself up proud and declared: ​“They’re not here, silly. Fairies only come out in the evenings, you see. They’ll be fast asleep by now!” ​

“That child has a far too vivid imagination,” principal Philipps scoffed. ​

“He's eight,” Angela reminded her, to which the principal simply stalked out. ​

But not before getting the final word in. “Plays! It is the devil’s tool.” ​

As it happened this morning the sigh of relief quickly turned into a buzz of excitement, which could be due to a great number of things. Angela laughed and half-heartedly scolded the lot for treating the principal that way or making fun of her old-fashioned opinions. Or so she believed, in large because her back was firmly turned against the entrance and she was far too busy with keeping a dozen children in check to notice new sounds.

​“Angela? Wouldn’t it be just smashing if we bumped into that man again?” the eldest of them said with a mischievous grin that made Angela roll her eyes. ​

“Yes, indeed – wouldn’t it be just… smashing?” Mark wondered, chuckling at the choice of words. “Only I’ve just had these clothes washed.” ​

Angela spun around. “Sir!” ​

“Miss. Children,” Mark tipped his hat at each of them.

​There was a moment when no one quite knew what to do. Some of the elder girls nudged each other and giggled. Suddenly Angela thrusted the watch into his hands. ​

“Your watch. I believe.” ​

“Ah, thank you. Very much,” he said in the same breathless, staccato tone. ​He was halfway through fastening it when he thought better of it and stuffed it into his inside pocket.

Angela gestured for Tim to step forward, patting his shoulder as she pulled him in front of herself like a shield. ​“Tim here found it on the street. He would have given it back if he hadn't... been distracted.” Tim gave her a look. “Right. We better get going. Come on! Make a line.”

​“Wait! A young woman like yourself alone with all these children? It doesn't seem wise.” ​

She laughed at that. “We walk to the park every day, sir.” ​

“Nevertheless.” ​

“Really, sir.”

​“I insist,” he said. ​

“Martin.”

​“Mark. Connelly,” he corrected with a frown. “Martin?” ​

A blush reddened her cheeks. “Oh,” she began but faltered. ​

The sun took that moment to shine a little brighter, the leaves moving just right to let it stream into the room. There was a chorus of voices, anxious to get moving, impatiently stomping by the door. The pair laughed and looked at each other and something seemed to shift between them.

He smiled and offered his arm. ​“Miss Angela.” ​

“Much obliged,” she said, relenting at last and took his arm. “Come on, then. We cannot keep the weather or this lovely gentleman waiting a moment longer. Who knows, winter might come back by mid-afternoon.”

​“It always does...” the eldest child said, looking at the holes in her gloves.

​“It was a perfect day for kites. Little Tim couldn't get enough, between the dragons and the fairies, his mind was crammed tight. An eight-year-old with all illusions of the world you can find in a child. He reminds me of you sometimes.”

​Kate scoffed. “Me? I wasn't like that.”

​“Oh, you were quite like that. Like every other child in this world. Dragons and fairies. Magic. And Nevereverland.” ​His voice trailed off.

A car went by on the bridge. A splash as the tires cut into a puddle. There was a drip-drip-drop from the branches leaning out over the waters. The swirling fog seemed to have a life of its own, it was almost dancing, showing off, refracting the lights until it seemed to Kate that they were surrounded by a supernatural glow. Of course, it was just natural, she knew that but a part of her could not help but wonder.

The old man’s breath was deep and slow. His eyes were open, but he was looking at something else. She leaned in closer to him, closing the gap between them. ​“Grandpa?” she wondered softly. ​

He started.

“What?”

​“For a moment I thought you were stuck in Neverland like Peter Pan.”

​He shook his head slowly. “I'm an old man, my brain doesn't work as fast as it used to. Got a lot of stuffing in there nowadays. Tends to leak too. It wasn't always like that.” ​

“Should I call the nurse?” Kate wondered. ​

“For heaven's sake no!” the old man cried. “I hate that woman.” ​

There was another pause. A shift in the light. Kate’s mind raced with all that she had learned. She glanced at him through the corner of her eye. She was used to him, the way he drifted off sometimes. But it was different this time, and she tried to think of something to distract him with. Move away from the edge of the ledge that was all too close. ​

“Did you love her?” she wondered. “The lady in the story?”

​He smiled. “Yes, very much. More so now than I ever did back then.” ​

“What did Mark do?” she asked in an attempt to turn his thoughts away from the sadness that crept into his voice, the lines on his face deepening. ​

His cane scraped against the ground as he got up, one creaking joint at a time. He stopped short of the riverbank and when he spoke his fingers brushed against the railing, drawing patterns in the drops. ​“He was in charge of the stage machinery, flying Peter and the Darlings away to Neverland. There was a problem with one of the wires one evening, so he was late to leave. He always blamed the wires. He dragged his feet to his grand townhouse but when the orphanage was in the park, his step was as light as the kites they flew. I remember that. I remember that step. I miss that step.” ​

And then Mark seemed to be there, as he had been all those years ago in the century that was gone, standing on the riverbank. He was fiddling with his watch while contemplating the view as if battling a problem that he couldn’t quite solve. The old man mimicked his movements with an ease that spoke of practice. As if his own fingers remembered each nick in the metal, each tick of the cogs.

​“What's the matter?” Kate wondered, gently placing a hand on his arm and the vision was gone. ​

“Nothing,” he said, shaking himself out of the reverie. “Where was I?” ​

But Kate was shaking her head now. “We can continue tomorrow, get some rest, clear our minds...” ​

“You wanted to hear the story,” he replied curtly.

​“Nurse!”

Kate squeezed his hands with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We can continue tomorrow.” ​

“Who knows if there will be a tomorrow?” ​

“Grandpa?”

​“She said that all the time, it was her mantra, her excuse if you like. “What if there is no tomorrow? What would you do today?” Kate. What if there is no tomorrow? What would you do?”

​She didn’t have to think about it long. “I'd be curious,” she admitted.

​“Are you alright, sir?” the voice of the supervising nurse called out. ​He had been keeping himself scarce, playing some game sitting in the car up by the road with the door open just in case. ​

“Yes, thank you! It was nothing!” they both called out, giving each other a look. He nodded. ​

“Have faith. It gives opportunities to those who long for them. Like a chance meeting on a cloudy day. Queen Victoria had only died a few years before. And her age still lingered in every man's heart. You have to remember it was before the world as you know it. Way before proper phones and bold, free-spirited, career-making, suspicious young women like yourself. Quite the stone age, eh?”

​“Grandpa,” she scolded. ​

“Hah-ha. Where was I? Oh yes. They went to a restaurant, newly opened. They had a three-course meal and a lot of wine until the night got blurry and fuzzy and flushed despite the winter chill. They could barely walk in a line like a gentleman and a lady ought to. And no cabs in sight. Of course.” ​

“Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes.

The street looked like any other street in London, cobbled stones, pavements, straight buildings with town houses and a square park with gates that were always locked no matter what it said on the notice. It wasn’t empty but it might as well have been for the man and the woman wobbling down the sidewalk, giggling. ​

“How far away do you live!?” Mark exclaimed. ​

“Oh, about ten more minutes,” she replied and giggled. “If we slow down and don't reach that corner.” ​

“I know how we can do that.”

​“By walking like ants?” she wondered, demonstrating how, much to his amusement. ​

“By this.” ​He swung around and tried to kiss her but missed.

The motion caused them both to fall onto someone’s front steps. ​

“Ow,” Mark grimaced. “Are you alright?”

​“Yes. Thank you.” ​Laughing, he helped her up on the steps, and with some effort they came to a rest, leaning against the top step. The sky was cloudy and gray, scarcely a wind disturbed the trees.

There was a layer of white sprinkled on top of everything, falling from the sky as if the air itself was crystallizing. Mark sighed dramatically.

​“Ah! Where are the stars? Such a dark sky for such a light mood.” ​

“So speak,” Angela whispered, leaning against his shoulder. “Make a wish.” ​

“What?” ​

She craned her neck to look up at him. “Ask for the stars to come,” she said as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “Make a wish. I know you can. It is not terribly difficult.” ​

“I wish for stars like the ones in your eyes,” he said breathlessly but she only laughed, sitting up straighter, shaking her head furiously.

​“No. Like this,” she said and took a deep breath, looking towards the sky. “I wish for a thousand lights in the sky. A glittering map to guide lost souls home. I wish for droplets and for prisms. I wish for the eyes of the night to watch, smile, to behold. I wish for sparkling diamonds on black velvet. I wish for magic and for the Milky Way. I wish for stars.”

​She had turned to him. Their gazes locked and what a look she gave him! There was a spark of something else. It can hardly be described, but I can imagine. I can imagine how they leaned in closer and closer. One pulling, the other drawn. Their breaths caught in their throats, their heart skipping a beat. It was too much for the world to ignore and as they came closer and closer something magical occurred. One by one, stars ignited until the dark sky was covered with sparkling diamonds, more than had ever been seen before. The clouds dispersed and the light flooded the streets below. ​Mark jerked away at the last moment, his jaw falling open.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

​“I told you. All you have to do is make a wish.”

​It was a moment that held eternity within its grasp. You only needed the violins. If there had been music, it would have soared when he kissed her. Gently at first. A star shot across the sky. Somewhere in the city fireworks went off in every color.

​“Look! The evening star,” Mark said. ​Something else crept into his voice. A little catch, like the breath of someone witnessing the aurora for the first time.

Watching the sky catch on fire, watching it dance across the night, flames playing, chasing, burning bright. ​Angela cranked her neck, eyes roaming. “Where?” she asked, incredulous. ​

“There.” ​With twinkling eyes miles deep, he pulled her close into an embrace more passionate than any man had ever been. Or so it felt in this moment of misty rain falling beneath city lights. There was a magic here, of the kind that echoes through time. The kind that become stories of men and women. Angela broke it off, laughing, never letting go. The street was empty, strangely so. ​

“Sir, I know I’m no evening star,” she tried but he shook his head fervently, his gaze ever steady. ​

“But just as mesmerizing. You are most odd. So different from everyone else.” ​

“Hold it!” Kate exclaimed, throwing her hands up. 

​“There is absolutely no way a man would say that after knowing a woman only – what? A week? Tops?”

​“It was a different time,” her grandpa reminded her with a dismissive wave. “Besides, just because it hasn’t happened to you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

​“Ta,” she said flatly. “I think your mind’s going. Mark seems more like the kind that filters everything he says. He’s so… careful. Ish.”

​“Sure. But this was nothing, it was the things he didn’t say that I remember most.” ​

“Do I want to know?” she wondered. ​

And the old man’s voice was no longer frail, it brightened, deepened. His eyes shone as if fifty years younger. Kate would later swear it was as if his wrinkles had all but disappeared, that there was another man in his place, one from a much different age. The fog rose like a halo around him. She could almost see the fireworks lighting it up in each and every color. ​And her grandpa spoke: ​“So... Bold. And that look. Again. As if you see me and not me but everything else that I cannot see. As if the spirits and ghosts of the world have chosen you; an angel, fallen from the sky to join them for a while. To listen and to tell us daft bastards everything we cannot know. And never would.”

He drew a breath and let it out in one explosive go. “How did you become so beautiful? How came you by that smile? Those eyes? That silky, dark hair? You know, you had me from the moment the setting sun stood like a halo around your head.’” ​The old man was on his feet now, with a grace and energy she hadn’t seen since she was a young little girl flying kites with him in the park. He was looking down the promenade and there she was, Angela. Surrounded by fog and a starry sky. ​

“You know, it is weird,” he said to the woman only they could see as if she was standing there with them at this moment and not nigh on a hundred years ago. “I thought for a moment you were as taken from Neverland itself. A fairy turned human. A mystery. You, my lady, are a mystery.”

​Angela laughed and her laugh was like a thousand bells, like piano keys.  “Are we not all?” she wondered.

Her expression was unreadable on those London townhouse stairs. The air vibrating around her. She appeared to glow brighter than everything around her. She was pulling him to his feet, spinning him into a tight embrace.

​“Where hast thou been, Mark Connelly?” she wondered as they danced to silent tunes. ​

“Too far away. Waiting. What do you say, my lady? You and me. Forever and ever.”

​She smiled. “Save something for tomorrow.” ​

“What if there was no tomorrow?”

​Angela stared at him, thinking for a moment, then leaned in. They kissed like nobody was watching, the image of the perfect, most happy couple there could be. Mixed with church bells ringing to celebrate the year of 1905. ​

Kate aw-ed and clapped her hands. “I love stories with happy endings,” she said. ​

The old man’s expression darkened. “Then you leave now,” he said as the world was pulled out from under them.

The story changed and shifted. Light became dark and dark light. “I am not sure when it happened but happened it did. Look around you, Kate. There’s nothing safe here, no happy tears. Just tears and plenty of them.”

“​Why?” She wondered as dread chilled her to the bone.

“​There was something wrong with Angela. Something very wrong. ​It was a moonless darkness when he found her. It was autumn again, and as grey as only London can get. There’s a curve in the road, overlooking the water with its row of wooden poles, each crowned with a bird. If you go to that park, you’ll know the spot. If you don’t know it, you’ll never find it. The night was particularly dreary. The day’s rain had soaked into the ground and turned grey gravel to nigh-on black. The dew would turn to frost in the morning and coat the park in a winter shroud.

A woman sat on the grass, barefoot and dressed in far too little for the season. Her hair was undone, her breath labored. Angela was rocking back and forth, arms clasped tightly around her knees. ​“I am not mad, I am sane. I am. I am sane. I am not mad. You need to trust me. I am not mad! Just a little stuck that is all, a little lost. Shut up. Stop talking. Stop talking!” She got on her feet, covering her ears. “Shut up!” ​

Mark came running through the shadows. Stopping short at the sight. “Angela.” ​

“Stop, please, they’ll hear you,” she cried, pushing him away from her. “Do you not know it is bad luck to talk in a dream? You will never find your way out. You are lost forever. And ever, and ever and ever…” ​

The woman in the dress collapsed on the ground. The man caught her just in time, holding her tight as she whimpered and shivered, both from the cold and whatever had taken hold of her. He looked at the figure standing on the road.

​“What is happening to her?” he asked desperately. ​

“The devil has taken her,” principal Philipps said. ​She produced a needle from inside her pocket and gave Angela an injection. Mark stared. It was over so fast, and the principal turned away. ​“Hold on to her. You are all that she has now.”

​Mark called out after her. “You have to help me.”

​“I am done. Take her home. Take her away!” ​

The sour-faced woman disappeared with a look of such utter contempt and disgust that it sent a chill down his spine. The night was darker where she went, and it was with some relief that she left.

Mark held the love of his life as her body at last stopped cramping. He took off his coat and wrapped her in it. ​

“Mark?” ​

“I am here. I am here.”

​Dawn arrived and they remained until the leeries came to snuff the lights. Then they went home, she leaning on his arm, wearing his coat as the city woke up to greet a new day.

​“He wanted to run away,” the old man said. “He wanted to close his eyes. Shut the world out. Expel her from his memory. She kept getting worse until principal Philipps fired her, or rather “impress upon her the importance of taking a break”, as she put it. No one believed her, of course. Little Tim was the only one to dare go near in the days that followed. Yes, he was still there,” he said, catching the look in her eyes. “And everywhere else.” ​

“But Mark?” she prompted. ​

“Mark? Yes. He was there too. See?” ​

Kate turned involuntarily and saw the pair walking across the river from the other bank as if it was pavement, with ripples in grass rather than water. There was a new smell in the air, and suddenly she noticed the lack of engines rushing by. The eerie quiet and the odd, disjointed shouting from markets and street corners.

Her hand was on his arm, his hand on hers. She was leaning against him, pale and thin – but there was a flush in her cheeks and her laugh still held bells. Her hair was well-kept, and her clothes repaired. There was little to suggest that fated night had ever occurred. ​

“Tim! Get down from there! It's dangerous.”

​“Like he will listen,” Mark said with a chuckle, giving her arm a little squeeze. ​

Tim came running in, running circles around them before setting off to climb a low wall. Suddenly he froze, between one step and the next. He stared like letters stare out of the pages of a book, like a child staring at you on a bus. He gave a little shriek, causing Mark and Angela to hurry to his side. Mark kneeled, a worried frown crinkling his forehead. ​

“Fairies! Angela! Mark! Look! It's fairy, I swear it is! Boy are they gorgeous, but why are they staring so?”

​“Just look away, Tim,” Mark said. “Don’t disturb them, or they might close off.”

​Tim bit his lip. “Okay.”

​And throwing a final, curious glance at the eyes that seemed to follow him so passively, he headed away again. Angela laughed, following him with her eyes. They both got to their feet, brushing off the dust. She took his arm and they started strolling. ​

“You seem fond of him,” he said. “What is his story?” ​

Angela shrugged. “He is special.” ​

“Give him a proper home. Why not?” ​

“You know why.” ​

Mark pulled her to a stop. “I can help you. I will be your husband and I’ll be the best you’ll ever have.” ​

“And I a very lousy wife,” she said with a sad smile. “No.” ​

“Why not? He loves you like no one else. He’s like you. The way you laugh, and you got the same hair. Was your brother his father? Or is he your brother?”

​“My God!” she laughed. “Do you ever run out of questions?”

​“I just wondered,” he said. “Besides I’ve given the matter a great deal of…” ​

She kissed him firmly on the lips to shut him up and it worked. They pulled apart and fell into step again, looking out for the child running around. ​

“You have some color today,” Mark said after a while. “Your hands are warm.”

​“That's good, right?” ​

He nodded. “Exceptional.” ​

“You will never lie to me, will you?” ​

“No. Of course not.”

​She took his left hand in hers. “Why do you wear that ring?” ​

Mark was silent for a long time. He chewed on his lip and then he shrugged. ​“I was engaged,” he began. “I was young, stupid, completely and utterly in love. Our parents disagreed with the match so of course I had to have her. Tell a boy he can't have something, and he goes right after it.” ​

“What happened?”

​“Love died. I just... I have not been able to take it off.” ​

“Maybe you have not found the right reason.” ​

“Maybe I have.” ​And when he kissed her this time, he slipped off the ring and placed it in his pocket.

Kate started getting a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. Every time the story played tricks on her mind, her vision, her senses, she kept trying to tell herself it was just her overactive imagination. But this right here, this was something she knew about. Something concrete. A fatal moment in a story. That small gesture, so well-meaning and well-intentioned and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The gesture of a naïve man. A man in love. Who’d risk everything for his heart, just to see a smile. Even if matters weren’t how they appeared.

​“It only takes a moment of magic, of getting swept off your feet to lose all sight of what is real, just one moment to lose your way in the labyrinth,” her grandpa said as if he could read her mind.

​“But what a sweet, sweet labyrinth love is,” she couldn’t help but point out, watching the couple stroll together like projections in the fog. ​

“Beware the sweetness, child, it has learned to shine the hard way.”

​In the fog Mark invited Angela to dance to a slow, haunting tune. Kate couldn’t take her eyes off them. The more she stared, the more she was pulled into their world. Until she was standing inside the apartment, next to the music box turning and turning on its table.

Her grandpa stood at her shoulder, singing softly. ​“I know it’s true and I know it’s hard, so you gotta keep a wide-open heart…” ​

Kate giggled for she had heard that same tune many times before. Countless sleepless nights and sad days. The music played on, and now that she knew where it came from and why, she couldn’t help but smile and become that five-year-old girl again. The girl who had broken her arm and couldn’t sleep.

​Her grandpa indicated they should move off to the side a little, so as to not disturb the couple that seemed so oblivious to the world around them. She didn’t argue and found herself surprised when she could lean against the wall that could not be there. Or could it? ​The old man’s voice was thick.

“Sometimes a drunkard or a beggar would yell “SHUT UP!” and she’d just laugh. I never got tired of listening to her; to me she had the most beautiful voice in this world and the next. And then there would be times when she seemed like a stranger.” ​

“Why?”

​“Because she had stopped glowing,” he said. “And Mark… Mark woke up.” ​

“What do you mean?”

​He turned to look at her. “His wife found out.”

The music went silent in the middle of a beat. Kate swung around but Mark was nowhere to be found. Instead, Angela was tearing her house apart. Pale, sweaty, and shaking uncontrollably. She fell to the floor sobbing. Looking up she saw the pair standing in her room, an old man and a woman wearing pants.

​“If you take me, I do not care. But spare him,” she pleaded with them. ​

Kate made a move to comfort her, but she was stopped by the firm hand of her grandpa. ​“Don't. Not yet,” he hissed.

​She heard a strangled noise from behind them. Instead of Angela’s apartment, she saw another room. Much grander and full of belongings. Mark was packing, throwing whatever he could grab into a case. Someone was throwing glass on the door. Kate didn’t know where to turn or what to do. She couldn’t move, nor did she want to. There was no sign of riverbank now, just fog and story-worlds. ​

“Did he take her with him?” she wondered, her voice small and shaken, desperate to shut both of them out. “Did they settle down in some foreign country? Did they become as happy as only they could be? Were they swallowed up by the Earth? And what about Tim? Just skip to the end. Tell me they lived happily ever after.”

​She was on the verge of tears now when Mark looked up and straight at her. He didn’t see through her this time but met her gaze straight on, so intently she took a step back. ​

“Did I?” he asked. ​

Kate stuttered and faltered. She couldn’t manage to shrug or make a move. His eyes were burning into her, a desperation in it that seemed to burn into her very soul. There was another sound behind them. ​

“Who are you?” Angela asked then, quite upset and rightly so. ​Kate felt the panic rise but then the woman’s gaze shifted to something beyond them both, to someone watching all of them intently, a slight frown on their faces. ​Angela screamed. “Who’s that!?”

​“Angela?”

​The walls are solid, the sun shining through the window. Everything is back to normal, falling to their normal places, the dust settling slowly. Little Tim was standing in the open doorway, shifting from one foot to the other while Angela herself was panting, hand on heart. ​

“Yes?” ​

He hesitated.

“Who are you talking to?”

​“The fairies,” she said with a small laugh, wiping the sweat from her bow. “They can be quite annoying sometimes, can't they? Reading you like an open book.” ​

“That’s because they don't like women. They are perfectly polite to me. Because I am a boy,” he said with a beam of a smile. “I am a lost boy. And I will never grow up. I will be Pan forever! Mark took me to the theatre again. Kirby was real nice, I got to fly!” ​Tim had thrown himself down on the sofa and started to pull at a thread.

Angela fetched him a glass of water but put it down on the mantlepiece rather than the table. She leaned against the windowsill, her voice as gentle as her features. ​“That’s nice. Just remember that we all have to grow up one day. Ok? Even Peter Pan. That doesn't mean we won't lose our memories, right?” She kneeled, taking his hands in hers. “So, don't forget the fairies. Ok? Go away.”

​Tears sprung to the child’s eyes. “Why can't I stay here with you? I want to stay here.” ​

“Tim,” she began but turned and yelled. “Butt out will ya!? Leave me alone!” ​

“Oh, did they pull your hair?” He wondered, clearly relieved. He sprung to his feet. “You have to put them in place. Like this. Leave her alone! We are having a conversation. You can't just interrupt like that, it is rude. Yes, she will take me away because I need a mother and you chase everyone else away. That's why!” ​

There was a pause when nothing moved. At last, Angela coughed, trying to find the right words to say. It was such a sweet gesture, yet it was a threat she knew everything about. ​“Sweetie?” ​He turned and hugged her, climbing into her lap to give her a cuddle.

“See. Now they will leave you alone. Because they are too sad to be angry and jealous. See they are so tiny that...” ​

“… Their bodies can hold only one emotion at a time,” she finished for him. ​

Angela wrapped her arms around the boy with the ruffled hair and bright blue coat covered in mud and leaned her cheek against the top of his head.

Her voice was barely audible. ​“We could go somewhere. We could climb mountains and swim in lakes long forgotten. Wouldn't that be neat?” ​

Tim turned quickly in her arms. “Let's go to Neverland!” He announced with such an adamant expression she burst out laughing for the first time in days. ​

“I can't fly Tim, I seem to have forgotten how,” she said and grew somber. “Besides, I don’t know the way.” ​

“Think happy thoughts, then it’s off to the second star on the right and straight on 'til morning,” he said. “Easy.” ​

The little boy nodded to himself, quite proud to have worked it all out. He yawned and curled up in her arms. They sat like that until the twilight came and night fell. There was never a moment when the song ended, Angela continued to hum and hum to the boy who had nothing. Eventually, she laid him down on the sofa, gently pulling a blanket up over him, tucking him in, giving him a kiss on the forehead. She blew out the candle and turned to the window. It was time to dance with the fairies, she knew, and let herself be consumed.

​“Seriously, grandpa!” Kate exclaimed, finding herself at the breaking point. He waved the cane in her face, marking out every word, no less angry than his granddaughter. ​

“You wanted a story. You wanted the truth. You wanted the fairies, you wanted it too.”

​She was on her feet, flushed, scrambling. “Not like this! I don't want to hear a word more, tell me something else. Tell me about... About something! Anything!” ​

“There is only one story,” the old man said, his voice flat and empty. “It is the beginning and the end. I tried to lie to you, you wanted the truth. I gave it. I know you. You want to know.” He squared his shoulders. “Then know.”

​Rush hour was approaching, one could tell by the number of cars that went by on the bridge. A wind had picked up, but the fog was still so thick it was difficult to make out the other bank. Kate was grinding her teeth, marching up and down in tighter and tighter circles. She grabbed the railing until her knuckles went white. She stood like that for a long while with nothing moving but the wind and the Thames. Suddenly she snatched up her purse and left.

​“I am sorry, Kate.” ​The old man’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned back on the bench, his body suddenly heavy.

There was nothing to be done, he guessed. Who wanted an ending, when the beginning had been so nice? And he wasn’t sure he could remember it either, it had been such a blur, everything happening at once, and yet they couldn’t have. But his memory crumpled time up so absolutely the knot was impossible to unfurl. ​The cane went tap-tap-tap against the ground. He didn’t have to look at the bench to know the markings that had been carved into the wood. That’s how he had found this spot after so many years. He had found it.

In the fog he could see Angela sitting at the ledge, her feet dangling over the water. She was wearing that red dress, and the diamond necklace Mark had given her for something or other, he forgot. His heart ached to touch her. To hold her.

You were his angel, he whispered to her in his mind. And now… ​He became aware of someone observing him. Looking up, he was surprised to see Kate standing there, flushed and furious – but there. They looked at each other for a long time.

​“Are you sure?” he wondered at last.

​“No.”

​He nodded. With slow movement and limbs riddled with pain, the old man crossed the riverbank towards the woman sitting at the edge over the waters rising with the tide. He lowered himself to the ground and let out a sigh. Two people at a ledge. She didn’t move, but a slight tilt of her head told them that she knew. ​

“She knew I was there. We looked out over the river that had lost all markings of time and space.” ​

Cold to the bone and heart pounding, Kate stood frozen, purse still in hand. She didn’t dare to move but couldn’t help but look. To watch the images from another lifetime, another world flash by: The principal marching into the tiny, scruffy apartment and finding Tim fast asleep. Her shaking him awake and pointing towards the door with a stone-faced frown. Him following her with downcast eyes until they got back to the orphanage. The other children, subdued, watching as he returned – some hugging him, others simply going back to their tasks with an acknowledging nod. ​The joy that had been there seemed to have been sucked out of the place. Suddenly it appeared to Kate as if her grandpa and the woman of his story became a part of it all, as if a veil had fallen between her and them. She wondered if he could still hear her. Or if she had lost him too.

Suddenly Angela lunged forward, struggling against an old man’s grip that clung to her like he would never cling to anyone again.

​“She told him,” she gasped. ​

“No,” he shook his head, tears falling. “He doesn't know. He's blissfully unaware, chasing his fairies and gnomes and... Don't you go to him. Let him think that you have abandoned him. He will forgive you.” ​

“No. Tim!”

​He tightened his grip, cradling her in a surprisingly strong embrace. She whimpered. ​

“He won't cry over something he won't know,” he said with a voice filled with desperate conviction. “He can't miss you if he doesn't know you're gone. Let him hope. Hope that you will come back. Let him hope in vain. Close your eyes. Erase him from your memory like he will try to erase you.” ​

“I'm done listening to you!” she screamed. “You’re not fairies, you are devils!” ​

“Angela! Calm down! Why can't you just listen? I'm not just another voice in your mind, I'm here. I'm real.”

​“Tim!” ​

“No!”

​She broke free and ran and ran until she ran into the orphanage’s courtyard. Tim was playing with the rest of the children when she came storming in. Principal Philipps was there in an instant, roughly shoving her towards the door. The two women struggled for a long time, until the children tried to intervene and separate them. ​

“Grandpa! It’s Mark!” Kate called out but the old man could not hear her, he was too wrapped up in the chaos. ​But Kate was seeing something else. A blue telephone box had appeared on the road and Mark was leaning against it, talking urgently into the receiver. At last, the call was patched through and the other person picked up.

​“Hello? Rebecka, is that you? Hello? Rebecka, I need to talk to you. It is of utmost importance. Hello?” ​

There was a long pause then a joyless giggle. “She is pretty.” ​

“Who?” ​

“That girl. Dark hair. Blue eyes. I love that red dress of hers. Too nice for a governess at an orphanage but I bet you gave it to her. She’s got a bit of a mental problem. I’m sure you didn't know that. You would just have run away. That's my Mark. Runs away from everything.” ​

“Becka? Where are you?” ​

She made a tut-tut sound. “The children seem to love her.” ​

“They really do,” Mark agreed, chuckling nervously. He was looking around, no longer leaning casually. He lowered his voice so much that Kate had to move in closer. “Look, there is nothing between us, I promise. She is just a friend.”

​“Then why is she wearing my necklace?” Came the cold reply. ​

Mark abandoned the telephone, leaving it dangling on the cord. The orphanage was just a couple of blocks away and the desperate man ran as fast as he could, so fast that anyone standing in his way immediately moved. ​

“Rebecka!” ​

Everything happened at once.

Angela broke free.

A gunshot rang out.

Once.

Twice.

Kate screamed out in horror, clamping a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. The old man just stood there as if struck by lightning as Angela collapsed. ​All sounds drowned till they became nothing more than background murmur.

The children crying and screaming.

The principal trying to bring order, her face white and eyes wide open.

A moment passed and then Mark threw himself through the gates. ​

“NO!! Angela!?”

He took her in his arms, changing his grip, hands shaking.

“Angela, look at me.” ​

From the edge of the scene, Rebecka’s voice was crisp, remorseless in Kate’s ear. “You lied, Mark, you lied to me. You know you did. The dream will always end. You know it will. You know the price for storytelling, don't you Mark? Mark? Come home. She is gone, Mark. Come home.”

​Kate spun around but could see nothing. Sense nothing.

Nothing but the two who suddenly appeared to be utterly alone and bathed in light, sitting on cobbled stones stained with grime and blood.

Nothing because there was nothing else that mattered in her grandpa’s story.

How Rebecka knew did not matter.

How she taunted Mark did not matter.

How Angela came to them that day in that dress did not matter.

How Rebecka came by that gun did not matter.

Only that it had happened mattered.

This mattered. Right here.

Mark’s eyes were glistening, but he managed to keep the shiver out of his voice. When she opened her eyes, he smiled.

​“Angela.”

​“I knew you were lying,” she coughed, her voice weak.

​“I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

​“I am frightened.” ​

“I'm here,” he said. “Just hold on, five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

​She tried to take a breath but was unable to. “Tell Tim...” ​

“Tell him yourself,” he tried but she shook her head, he didn’t understand. ​

“He is my son. He is –” ​And the rest was silence.

The worlds came crashing back with a deafening sound. Sirens in the past. Sirens in the present. Kate heard Mark cry. A cry of anguish so deep she knew he would never recover. Her heart bled for him. She closed her eyes, but his voice still sounded in her ears: ​“Angela! Please. I love you, please, stay with me. I will tell him, I will tell him everything. If you live, please, live. I can't be without you. Angela... Angela...” ​

Little Tim broke free of the principal’s arms and threw himself down on Angela, next to Mark. The man looked up with a new fear. ​

“Tim? Oh God, Tim. Look away. It is alright. She is... sleeping. She is sleeping.” ​He rambled, he knew he was rambling but couldn’t stop. He tried to dry the tears that kept on coming and he tried to hold on to the world when it threatened to slip away. But he was no match for the child that clung to his mother, nor for the grief that had frozen his heart. ​The fog was clearing, erasing the images.

The last that Kate saw was principal Philipps appearing by their side, placing her scarf over Angela’s face to cover the dead. Prying the child away with a gentleness that was entirely out of character, saying ​“Tim. It is time for bed. Come on.”

​“Tim! It is time for bed! Come on!”

​The nurse’s call cut through the veils like a knife, bringing them back to the present. Kate blinked and the world was back to normal, her grandpa sitting on the bench like he had when they came. ​

“I am coming!” the old man called back. “I am coming...”

​There was a drizzle in the air and magic beneath the lights. Kate looked around and the shadows faded. The people. The voices. The sobs. The smell. The faint song. Buildings rose over parks and the orphanage burned down, its smoke turned to fog, turned to simply air.

The story of Angela and Mark and little Tim faded away. Faded into history like distant memories, like tears in the rain. Until it was just a story once more. Of how in each heart there is a patch of dark. How there too is light. That thing that guides us, leads the way though our brains scream out in pain. ​

Kate pulled her coat tightly against the chilly wind and kissed her grandpa goodbye. He looked after her, hearing her sing that lullaby from long ago. ​

“Stories are like stars,” he said to himself, his voice hoarse but not with age. “Once you light the fire, you will have to wait it out. At least the fairies will keep you company at night.”