A Castle Made Of Dreams

SOME PROMISES WERE never meant to be kept.

Forty-year-old Wallace Danehard worked at a company he held no care for. He was a corporate slave, working his life away at a desk for a boss he secretly despised but had to suck up to for the sake of his wallet. His home wasn’t a peaceful haven for him to rest his head and sometimes, he found himself dreaming of a world where everything was fun and quiet.

After years of living in reality, Wallace had long forgotten the promise he had made once in his youth to a pretty fiery witch that snuck children away in the dead of the night. He was now a father of two beautifully bright children but a bearer of no dreams other than greedy ambition.

It was long after Wallace had grown too old had he realized that the Neverland Orphanage was a castle made of dreams. The youth were protected there and allowed the luxury of being whatever they wished to be. Every day, they fought pirates, explored the heavens, frolicked with mermaids, and fraternized with the spirits. They did whatever they wanted to with whoever they wanted to.

Such innocence of youth had long been forgotten by Wallace.

He had grown old and haggard and it wasn’t until one day when he noticed a familiar-looking tuff of dawn red hair on the streets had he remembered. The flash of green on the young woman’s dress forced him to recall those delightful days he had suppressed the second he became an adult.

It was the same old quaint little street he had once often patronized, the home of the small pub he told stories in once upon a time. When he curved the corner, leather shoes hitting hard against the cobbled stone ground, he saw the girl staring right into the glass window.

Many years had passed since Wallace had left his old job of telling tall tales and exchanged it for one of boredom. The wage was better but not necessarily the job description. With him gone, the pub had found many others to fill his position. This was the first time he had returned to his old haunt to see the witch patronizing.

Standing a distance away, Wallace watched as Paige Prewitt darted into the pub just as the remaining customers walked out. Curious, Wallace crept nearer, peering into the storefront to see a scene straight out of his memory. The witch, dressed in her signature green chiffon dress, spoke to a young boy about sixteen or seventeen years of age while hovering inches above the ground. She was still wearing a cocky grin that held no sense of fear, just as young and filled with mirth as Wallace recalled seeing her last.

The two spoke quickly. While Wallace had been reluctant and hesitant the first time Paige offered to bring him to Neverland, this other boy wasn’t. The two quickly left the pub, hand-in-hand with Paige up front. With a whistle, her broom came soaring towards her, parked by the roadside in preparation for take-off.

As she helped the teenager up the broom, Paige happened to turn her head. The eyes of two old friends met, their gazes lingering a little longer than passing strangers.

Wallace’s throat clogged up, dry and scratchy as he searched for words of greeting. His feet stepped forward on instinct, itching to get closer to Paige, to ask if she had been well through the years. How were the children at the orphanage? Were the mermaids doing well? Had the pirates been up to any mischief?

However, the distance that separated Wallace and Paige wasn’t just measured in inches or meters. It was measured in time. Wallace had, after all, grown up. He had long left the castle made of dreams behind, forgotten even in his memories. He was no longer allowed to return with her to the world of wonder. He had lost his bravery to dream.

So he stopped on his own accord, his feet halting in his steps, unable to move forward. He no longer had the right.

Words weren’t needed for Paige Prewitt to see what was written in Wallace’s mind. She simply smiled, filled with grief and disappointment, yet fondness at the sight of an old friend. Just like that, sparing a single second for him, she turned away right after that second was over. With a kick, the broom went soaring towards the stars, disappearing out of sight.

The grown man’s eyes trailed after the broom, staring hard at the spot they disappeared from. Around him, the streetlamps flickered, their flames swaying, the roads dead silent. The town was dead asleep, yet again no one present to witness how Paige Prewitt, the fabled witch, had spirited away yet another youth.

Just then, a sparkle from the skies caught Wallace’s eyes. Instinctively, he stepped forward, running towards the falling star with his arm reached out. When the small bit of gold landed in his palm, Wallace gasped sharply through his teeth.

He had caught a small golden acorn. This time, there was no golden chain that accompanied the pendant. The small acorn charm was connected to an old green ribbon, the fabric worn and losing color, ripped at some edges. Written on it, however, was clear cursive in sharp black ink. The words, though little, brought tears to Wallace’s eyes. The fully grown man dropped to his knees, heart heavy with tears in his eyes as he read it through again and again.

‘Remember our promise,’ it wrote. ‘The stars await.’