Beyond the city, there lies the remains of a house. It was an old house. It had resigned itself to ruins long ago and was content in its retirement.
The roof had crumbled, and many of the walls had lost their grip on verticality, but there were trees and sky. Just enough shelter to hide from Hook, and just enough space to command the heavens.
For on any given day this house could hold anywhere within its walls. Bucking ham Palace or Neverland, Narnia, Oz, or even
There was no magic there, at least not as far as anyone could tell. No sightings of fairies, no talking animals. But perhaps that was the point. It wasn’t there unless you saw it.
It called to the young ones, of course, to The Children. Perhaps a reflection of light would lead to investigation, or, following, the wind would bring one to the doorway. They may have never met before, the ones who came. They didn’t need to.
They rarely shared their given names; they each became the role the house asked of them. Edmund, Lucy, Peter, Wendy. They would become whoever was needed that day, even those yet to be named.
The house called to the young, but they aren’t the ones who remember it. That comes later. After they have grown up and moved far away, after they have become “responsible”. That’s when it happens.
Perhaps they will ruin into one another at the party, or see each other across a crowded railway station. The Children find each other once more. They can catch the eye of a stranger and know they have met before. Then they introduce themselves and catch up on life together. They share stories, and find once again the wonder and beauty in the world.
Beyond the city, there lies the remains of a house that on one has ever tried to tear down. And so it sits basking in the sunlight and rainfall and snow cover, waiting. It calls to its Children. And when we are young no longer, it welcomes us home.
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