January 6, Year Unknown

            The iron grates which spilled hot steam onto London's dark streets were many, but not so numerous as the dark and
shadowed bodies which crowded around them for warmth. If you were lucky, you only had to share yours with a few other people. If you looked dangerous enough, others left you alone and you had the luxury of your own heat source for that night. Those who were neither lucky nor dangerous usually succumbed to the cold in a few nights and their corpses were picked up by the 'body police' when someone finally complained. It had snowed almost all day, coating the city in that perfect crystalline layer that made children beg their parents to be allowed outside and into the frigid temperatures to play for a few hours before going back inside, to clamour for hot drinks and warm hugs.
 
            But the snow fell indiscriminately, both upon those who loved it, and those who cursed it because it meant that it would be that much colder tonight, that there would be that many more dead tonight, frozen in the face of a city who cared little.
 
            A young man, his shoulders hunched against the biting wind, shivered as he was chased away from the third potential
sleeping spot. Satisfied that the interloper would not try again, his would-be pursuers settled back into their accustomed places and re-wrapped themselves in the tattered rags and torn sleeping bags that would serve as beds for at least a few more nights.
 
            The young man’s only afforded warmth was a red jacket, outer lining shredded to near nothing but inner flannel still intact. It had been a rare find, he admitted to himself constantly, in a world where every scrap of trash was picked over a dozen times before it ever saw the dump. He wrapped his arms around his slight body and stumbled forward through the snow, feeling (it seemed) every icy granule through his tattered footwear. He passed more iron grates, all occupied to or past capacity; he wondered if the sun or the body police would find him first in the morning. Then he caught sight of an elusive wisp of steam, leaking out from beneath the 90° angle of a recessed stairwell. He knew London-town often located grates beneath outdoor stairways to let the heat rise and keep the stone steps unfrozen for the richer pedestrians. He stumbled towards it, fell, and crawled into the cast shadows -- and came right abreast a pair of deadly furious eyes and the sharp point of a knife.
 
            “It is polite,” a voice said acidly, “To be invited in before barging in.”
 
            ~I’m going to die.~ the young man thought, and that was that. He shouldn’t be afraid, he’d faced so much more before, why should something as tiny as this make him so afraid ? But in that instant, everything seemed so simple, so innocently and perfectly clear, as crystalline as the snowflakes that had begun to fall around him again. ~I’m going to die.~ But he didn’t die. The person who had spoken, an older man by the deep voice, slowly retracted the sharp point and, drawing back, became indistinguishable from the shadows again.
 
      “What do you want ?” he snapped, and even though the young man couldn’t see his face he could tell that the older man was scowling something ferocious. The young man swallowed, both his pride and his fear in the same gulp.
 
      “Can you share your grate for tonight ?” He asked carefully. “Please ?”
 
      The was a long pause, long enough to make the young man think that the guy hadn’t heard him clearly, or was ignoring him,
both of which was common enough on the streets. A dead chill ripped through his torn jacket, making him realize that this half-in, half-out position was almost worse than completely exposed. He didn’t like the cold, detested the cold, made him wonder why he’d even come to London in the first place.
 
      “For tonight.” He heard after an agonizingly long wait, and crawled inside and out of the subzero temperature, sizing up his
impromptu roommate. The old man was securely bundled in an ancient looking parka, and then layered in many rags that may once have been blankets. Seeing the poorly dressed state of his new companion, he offered the young man one of the warmer layers, which was gratefully accepted.
 
      “Thank you. What’s your name ?” the young man asked, sitting on his half of the long rectangular grate and letting the stale
but blissfully warm air chase away some of the chill.
 
      “None of your business.” The old man grunted, obviously content to spend the night in utter silence. ~Fine, then I won’t tell
you mine.~ the young man snapped, mentally but with force no less, as though it would get his point across anyway. The knife had disappeared somewhere back into the folds of the parka. That explained why he had a spot to himself; he had a weapon to defend it with. Well, good for him, the young man surmised. He reached into his jacket’s pocket and pulled out a tattered, faded book. He ran his fingers, only now beginning to thaw, over the broken binding, across the pages, lovingly tipped the bottom corner where it dog-eared itself into a flat triangle. His only possession -- the only one that meant anything to him.
 
I fear the imminent gravity of aborted wishes…
 
      “What have you got there ?” The question made the gravelly voice less angry sounding.
 
      “My book.” The young man answered.

       “I can see that. What book ?”

      Annoyance had entered the man’s voice, making its edge hard again. Apparently, the old man had thought he’d been
criticized, treated like a child who hadn’t known what a book was. The younger man ducked his head in embarrassment. “I… I didn’t mean… I mean…  its ‘Peter Pan’.” He stammered, clutching the treasure closer to him, as though the old guy might steal it away, or feed it to a non-existent fire. When the old man made no reply, added, “I bought it with the money I had, when I got to London.”

            The old guy snorted as though that were funny. “You should have bought food instead of fairy tales.” He said, shifting to get more comfortable. “Would have lasted you longer.”

            “They’re not fairy tales !” The young man snapped vehemently, finding a source of strength. “And I hadn’t planned on
staying in London ! I was… looking for someone.”

            “Aren’t we all. Did you find them ?”

            “… No, I didn’t.”

            The old man grunted again, as though his point had been proved. Maybe it had, it didn’t matter. He lapsed back into silence, and the young man opened the book with gentle care. It seemed either of them wanted to talk tonight.

I have seen before through eyes like his…

            Oh, he knew every word and sentence in this book by heart. He loved this book, this eternal story that, supposedly, had taken place right here, right in the starry sky above the city. He looked up, searching for that pair of elusive stars that marked the way to magical Neverland, but the clouds obscured his searches. Even on clear nights, he couldn’t see them. But that didn’t stop him from looking every night. The young man lowered his eyes to carefully mended pages, and with the practise of reading by the dimmest glow of streetlights, picked a random page and began to read. He didn’t need to start anywhere specific; just reading would be enough to satisfy him.

      After only a few seconds, the young man smiled. One of his favourite parts -- oh, poor Tootles, having shot Wendy from the sky. He tried to imagine how terrified Tootles must have been, but his imagination failed him. He pictured the Lost Boys standing in a tight cluster around Wendy’s body so that Peter wouldn’t see her, but he lacked to know exactly how the Lost Boys looked. He kept reading, instead, thrilled as, in the story, Peter found Wendy and threatened Tootles with the very arrow that had brought the young girl down. As always, a tremor of excitement ran through him. And then, as always (since the book never changed) Wendy raised her hand and the adventure went on.

      The streetlamp flickered and died, plunging the recessed stairwell into complete darkness. Disappointed, the young man
closed his book and slipped it back inside his jacket, next to his heart where it had no chance of getting lost, or stolen, or forgotten. He was not nearly so cold anymore, and not tired, and abruptly bored. In the sudden silence of both his surroundings and his mind, all the night-sounds of the city seemed to echo, seem louder and closer than normal.

      “Do you hear that ?” the young man asked, “It’s sounds like…. bells.”

      “Bells.” The old man repeated skeptically.

      “Yes, bells. Like tiny bells -- do you hear it ?” he asked. “It sounds like…” his mind likened it to the only thing his imagination could produce. “…like Tinkerbell, from the story.”

      “I don’t hear anything.” The old man said. “You’ve got your stories on the brain.”

      Embarrassed, the young man fell silent again. But he could still hear bells on the fringes of his hearing. Or maybe they were
in his mind. He couldn’t be sure, since sometimes he imagined himself inside the story, just to be a part of it. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

I know the pain separation gives…

            “I’m not supposed to be living like this.” The young man said, surprising the both of them. It had just… slipped from him. “I used to have a good life. I used to have everything, it seemed.”

            “Why’d you leave ?”

            “I was missing something.”

            “What ?”

            “I don’t know. Or I don’t remember. One or the other.”

            “Couldn’t have been too important, then, could it ?”

            “But it was important ! I wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t important, right ? But it seems like such a long time ago. It seems like I’ve been wandering forever.” The young man pulled the tattered blanket into a cocoon around him and drowsed as he reassured himself. He heard a tinkle of bells again but forced his mind to dismiss it. Maybe the old guy was right.

And he hasn't yet learned…

            “My name is Benjamin.” The young man says, breaking his promise to withhold his name until the old guy broke his. “My friends call me Ben.”

            “Nice to meet you, Ben.”

            “You don’t want to share your name ?”

            “No.”

                       Forever never means forever... anymore, anymore, anymore...

            Benajmin drifted off into sleep, allowing the old man some peace and quiet at last. The snow had stopped after depositing only another half an inch or so, enough to make everything sparkle all over again. A golden light lit the snow, accompanied by the sound of silver bells ringing through prisms. The old man smiled, and for a moment, just the barest, most fleeting of seconds, his happy thought returned.

            But he hadn’t flown in forever, it seemed. Too long ago, too long, too long… The thought vanished like a breath of wind, or a speck of pixie dust, gone again.

            “Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning.” He said, looking over at the sleeping youth. “But you’re trying too
hard. Not even the birds carrying compasses and maps could find it using those directions…”

                                           Did it ever ?

            “Who’s this ?”

            “Someone with happier thoughts than I.”

            “Can you come home now, yet ?”

            “I’ve forgotten how to fly. I remember the way but I’ve forgotten how to get there.”

            “You silly ass.” Tinkerbell said sadly, chiming at him, and went on her way.