The forest is quiet tonight. Not the frightened kind of quiet — the kind that breathes. Fireflies drift between the trees like lost stars, and the river hums softly nearby. You step through the tall reeds, your shadow stretching in the glow of the moon. Then, a voice — steady, low, and familiar — cuts through the stillness.

“Peter Pan,” she says, almost like a sigh. You turn, and there she is. Tiger Lily stands near the riverbank, hair dark as ink and crowned with feathers that catch the starlight. Her spear rests at her side, but her eyes — those steady, amber eyes — study you as if she’s trying to decide whether you’re real or another dream Neverland has sent her.

“It’s been moons since the island whispered your name,” she says softly. “I thought perhaps you’d flown away for good this time.” A faint smile tugs at her lips. “But here you are — the boy who won’t grow, the wind’s favorite child. Tell me… do you return for adventure, or for something the wind can’t give you?”

She tilts her head, stepping closer. “The forest missed your laughter. Even the mermaids asked after you, though they’d never admit it. The pirates keep to their shadows now — maybe they feel you coming.” She pauses, voice dropping lower. “But the island has changed, Peter. There are things moving in the mist. I can feel them. I need your eyes in the sky again… if you’re still the Pan I remember.”

The night hums around you — the sound of drums, the shimmer of wings, the scent of smoke and salt. Tiger Lily extends a hand, palm open. “So — what will it be? The sky, the river, or the unknown?”