My hands are shaking when I reach out for the door handles and yank them open, praying to all the gods that this is a terrible joke.
An illusion.
I even check over my shoulder to see if the twins are there, burying their laughter.
But there is no one and the figure remains.
And when she turns around, she fills the balcony with light. All of her is glowing. From her bright, shining face, to her bright golden wings.
Pixie dust glitters in the air around her.
“Hello, Peter Pan,” Tinker Bell says.