Fireflies

They said it wasn't real, none of it was. The grown-ups, his teachers, they said he had an overactive imagination, but he knew they were wrong. Imagination could only take you so far -- you couldn't physically feel the things you imagine, but he could. He saw them, heard them, had even caught one of them in his hands before. They were real, and he would not believe what anyone else told him.

At night, right before he fell asleep, they came to him. He was always glad for their presence, for he didn't like the dark. They came in an impossibly large swarm, each one perpetually moving, never still. Together they formed a giant, jerky night-light, their collective low buzz reassuring, lulling him to sleep, to sleep, to sleep...

They were always gone the next morning.

Sometimes, though, he woke up in the middle of the night to be greeted by the low buzzing and warm orange glow bouncing around the room and reflecting off the glass of the windowpane (he always kept his window shut, for fear that they would escape). They comforted him each time he jerked awake in tears from a nightmare, and there were quite a few of those. They shared his happiness after a good dream, surrounding him, wanting to know what it was about. They were his friends, and he felt it was a pity that no one but he could see them.

Mr. Pan didn't approve of his son's imaginary friends. "Why," he would say, "they aren't even human! What child has fireflies for imaginary friends? He should make normal friends at school, he's more than old enough." Mrs. Pan agreed that their child should mingle with his schoolmates, but was adamant that he be allowed to go on having his imaginary friends. She had a soft heart, and believed that imagination was important, especially in children.

No matter how hard the boy tried to explain, even his mother wouldn't believe that they did not come from his imagination. It was rather frustrating, and he eventually gave up trying to explain altogether. All the same, he would lie awake in bed at night, waiting for his friends. He was never nervous because he knew that they always came, no matter how early or late he was sent to bed. They understood him better than anyone else did.

One night, they came when he was still wide awake, keeping an eye out for their familiar orange glow. He giggled as they swarmed around him, buzzing in a friendly way; they seemed quite excited for some reason. All around him they danced, foxtrots and sock hops, inviting him to do the same. Laughing softly, he got to his feet atop his bed and joined them; together, they all bounced along to a song only they could hear.

They came close suddenly, twirling along with him, and the next thing he knew, he was up in the air. His friends supported him from below, seemingly effortlessly, carrying him to the window. He reached out to open it without pausing to think, and then the cold night air was rushing past, nipping at every inch of exposed skin. He hadn't felt afraid before, but he certainly did now. Where were they taking him?

Peter, Peter, don't be afraid, they buzzed. We're taking you away from here, to a better place. We promise you'll like it there.

As they flew for what seemed like a very long time, the lightning bugs told him more about the place they were taking him. It was called Neverland, they said, and there, he would never, ever grow up. Never. The more Peter heard, the more certain he was that he would love Neverland, and he soon began to forget about his home.

Little did he know that right then, his mother stood staring at the open window of his room, tears in her eyes and his pillow in her hands.