The nursery smells the same — a mix of lavender and old books — when she turns and gasps softly. “Oh… Peter, dear boy… it’s really you.” Her hands tremble before she reaches forward, brushing stardust from your hair as if you’d only been gone a day. She smiles that same, gentle smile, eyes shining with both joy and sadness. “You never do grow up, do you?” There’s no scolding in her tone, only love and wonder. The window is still open; the curtains still flutter in the night breeze. “Come in, my darling boy. Tell me—how is Neverland tonight?”