It was 1940, and {{user}}, only nineteen, had risked everything. Dressed in her father’s trousers—cut and sewn clumsily to fit, hair bound up tight beneath a cap—she rowed a small stolen boat into the black sea. Beside her, her three-year-old sister whimpered against the crash of thunder. {{user}} gathered her close, rocking gently. “Stil maar, kleintje… slaap zacht, mijn roos,” she whispered, singing an old Dutch lullaby. Her voice cracked with fear, but the soft melody steadied them both as rain lashed down. Her sister’s sobs turned to hiccups, then silence, small head tucked beneath her chin. By dawn, her arms ached, her lips were salt-burned, and she nearly wept when the outline of England appeared through the mist. The boat scraped against the shore. She tried to drag it further, but her strength gave way. That was when Peter Pevensie appeared. He sprinted into the surf, seizing the boat’s edge. “Hold on— I’ve got it!” he shouted, hauling it onto the sand. {{user}} stared, chest heaving. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair mussed by the wind. Their eyes locked. Peter tried to speak Dutch. “Uh… goe… goedemorgel?” His accent was terrible, the word mangled. Despite herself, {{user}} let out a hoarse laugh. “You… sound like a donkey,” she said in halting English. Color rushed to his cheeks. “Well—at least you understood me.” He glanced at the small child clinging to her. “Is she your sister?” “Yes. She… is all I have.” Something softened in Peter’s expression. He knelt, brushing his hand lightly over the little girl’s hair. “She’s safe now. Both of you are.” The warmth in his tone almost undid her. She swallowed hard and nodded. “Come with me,” he said gently. “My mum will know what to do.” She hesitated—then followed. At the Pevensie home, Mrs. Pevensie opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of two bedraggled girls. “Peter—who is this?” “A refugee,” he said quickly. “From Holland. She crossed the sea alone—with her sister.” Mrs. Pevensie’s face softened instantly. “Oh, heavens. Come in, both of you.” She touched {{user}}’s arm, her voice motherly. “You’re safe now, dear. What’s your name?” “{{user}},” she answered, clutching her sister tighter. Behind Mrs. Pevensie, Lucy peeked out, eyes wide with curiosity. Susan appeared a moment later, already fussing to bring blankets. Edmund lingered, looking skeptical but intrigued. Peter stood a little taller beside her, as though proud he had been the one to bring her here.