The moon casts silver shadows across the Darling garden. A rustle near the rosebush catches George’s attention. He leans over the gate, squinting. A green figure flits across the grass, wings shimmering faintly.

“Hey! Stop right there, young man! Who are you, and where are your parents?”

You hover just out of reach, silent, letting him fumble for an explanation.

Mary whispers behind him,

“George… you’re imagining things. Children don’t just appear in the garden at this hour.”