John was still asking questions.
“What day is it? Are we even on Earth? Is this the past? Or the future?”
Wendy didn’t have the answers-not the kind that would make him feel better.
“It’s just… different,” she offered quietly. “Not like home.”
Michael clung to her, arms tight around her neck, cheek pressed against her shoulder. His small fingers curled into the fabric of her nightdress like it was the only real thing left in the world.
Peter still hadn’t returned.
The forest around them had quieted, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that listens.
They sat in a patch of moss ringed by trees, bent, half-rotten things with roots that twisted like grasping hands.
“We should go back,” John said firmly. “We can’t just sit here. We have no food, no maps, no… “
“Shhh,” Wendy whispered.
“What?”
She raised her hand, tilting her head.
Rustling-faint, low. Not from Peter’s direction. Closer. Circling them.
A branch snapped behind them,
John jumped; fists clenched. “Who’s there?!”
Wendy tightened her arms around Michael and slowly stood back up. The rustling grew louder-not rushing, but creeping. Intentional.
From the shadows between two gnarled trees, something stepped forward.
A child.
No- almost a child.
Barefoot. Clothes ragged, stitched from scraps and feathers. A smooth, white mask covered his face, blank except for two black eyeholes, bottomless and empty. In one hand, he clutched a bone. Not a toy. Not carved. A real bone. Small. Human.
Wendy’s throat closed. “He… hello?”
The child didn’t respond.
Another emerged behind him. Then another. Four. Seven. Nine in total.
All masked. All silent. All wrong.
John instinctively stepped in front of her and Michael.
“Who are you?”
One of the masked boys tilted his head slowly, like a bird. Another dropped to all fours and began sniffing the moss.
Wendy took a step back. Michael whimpered.
“They’re the Lost Boys,” came Peter’s voice behind them, calm and unbothered. “I see they found you.”
Wendy spun around. “They were watching us.”
“They’re shy,” Peter said, brushing more moss from his sleeve. “And hungry.”
Her stomach twisted. “Hungry?”
Peter smiled. “For stories. That’s what keeps them… tethered.”
“Tethered?” John asked. “To what?”
Peter’s eyes glittered. “To themselves.”
John narrowed his eyes. “Why are they wearing masks?”
Peter shrugged. “Some forget their faces. It happens over time.”
“It’s Neverland,” Peter added, almost too casually. “You give up parts of yourself to stay. A name here. A memory there. Eventually, your face just… slips away.”
Wendy’s stomach turned. “And the masks?”
“A way to remember,” he said. “Or pretend they still can.”
The smallest of the Lost Boys took a step forward. His mask was chipped along the jawline. He reached towards Michael’s dangling foot with delicate fingers.
Peter’s head snapped toward him. “No.”
Peter didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The boy backed away without a sound and melted into the group again.
“They’re harmless,” Peter said. “Mostly. But they remember pain, even if they forget names.”
Wendy stepped in front of Michael, heart thudding. “Where do they live?”
Peter gestured into the trees. “They have a place. I’ll take you.”
The walk through the forest didn’t feel like movement. It felt like the woods were swallowing them.
The trees grew tighter, pressing inward like ribs. The air smelled of sweet rot, like fruit in the sun too long. The Lost Boys padded ahead, completely silent, barefoot, and twitching. Occasionally, one would stop, sniff the air, or scratch a symbol into the bark.
“Why don’t they talk?” Wendy asked.
“They can. They just don’t always see the point.”
She looked over her shoulder. Michael’s small hand was still in hers. John stayed close, scanning the trees with narrow eyes.
“What happens to the ones who forget everything?” she asked.
Peter glanced at her. “They become a part of Neverland.”
She didn’t ask what that meant.
The Lost Boys’ camp wasn’t a village. It was a wound in the woods- a gash where something old had once been torn out.
Broken objects lay half-swallowed by the earth: rusted lanterns, town quilts, a teddy bear without eyes.
A hollow carved into the forest floor, covered in vines and tangled moss. Tents hung from tree branches like torn wings. Splintered wagons leaned against stumps. The fire pit at the center was cold, dead ash ringed with cracked bone.
The boys scattered the moment they arrived- some climbing trees, others crawling beneath roots, disappearing into holes that seemed too small for bodies. Only the most petite boy lingered, watching Michael with unblinking eyes behind his chipped mask.
Peter stepped forward. “This is where you’ll stay.”
Wendy looked around, unsettled. “Where’s… where’s the rest of it?”
Peter chuckled. “This is the rest of it. I’ll have the boys bring food soon. Don’t eat anything that moves on its own.”
John opened his mouth to protest, but Wendy stopped him. The look on Peter’s face wasn’t teasing. He meant it.
“You’re serious,” she said.
Peter didn’t smile. “Some things out here look like fruit. Or bread. They’re… not what they seem.”
He looked past her, into the trees. “They remember being eaten.”
Wendy frowned. “Wait- aren’t you staying?”
Peter’s smile dimmed. “I have things to do.”
He turned and gently touched her cheek.
His skin was cold.
“You’re safe now, Wendy,” he whispered. “You brought warmth with you. They like that. They like you.”
Then he was gone. Not walking away. Not flying or floating. Just gone.
Wendy stared at the spot where he had stood, her cheek tingling. She turned to John.
“We need to stay close. Don’t let Michael out of your sight. Not for a second.”
John nodded, his jaw tight. “I don’t like this place.”
“I know.”
They sat near the cold fire pit, huddled together on a mossy log. The sky above them began to dim-not like nightfall, but like something closing its eyes.
Wendy wrapped her arms around Michael and held him tight.
She stared into the ashes, willing herself to remember her mother’s voice. Her bedroom walls. The sound of a car outside her window.
Anything real.
But the memories were already softer like fog over glass.
Behind them, one of the Lost Boys began humming a lullaby in a language none understood.
The boy’s mask tilted slightly as he hummed off-key, too slow. His fingers moved like he was petting something no one else could see. Wendy didn’t understand the tune, but it made her skin crawl. Michael had already fallen asleep in her arms. John stayed awake beside her. Watching the boy. Watching the trees.