Regret

The air was still.

No burst of magic. No last-minute miracle. No hidden loophole.

Rumplestiltskin was gone.

Around him, his family stood in stunned silence, each struggling to accept what had happened. Hook's hand pressed against his chest, feeling the steady beat of the heart Rumple had given him. Regina looked away first. Even after everything, she hadn't been prepared for the sight of his empty body lying motionless on the ground.

For a long moment, no one noticed the figure standing at the edge of the clearing.

Peter Pan watched from the shadows.

The chains that had bound him under the Wish Realm Dark One's control had finally broken when their master fell. Free once more, he should have laughed. He should have vanished to Neverland and never looked back.

Instead, he found himself staring at the body of the son he had failed.

Rumple had spent his life searching for family, sacrificing for family, fighting for family.

And in the end, he had died for one.

A strange feeling twisted in Pan's chest.

Regret.

The emotion felt foreign.

Uncomfortable.

For centuries Peter Pan had ignored regret. Buried it beneath power, beneath games, beneath the illusion that remaining a child meant escaping consequences.

Yet now it stood before him in the form of a lifeless body.

His son.

His only son.

Pan remembered a frightened little boy standing outside a spinning wheel shop.

"Papa?"

The memory struck him so suddenly that he nearly recoiled.

He hated that memory.

Hated the weakness in it.

Hated the look of trust in Rumple's eyes.

Most of all, he hated what came after.

The abandonment.

The lies.

The years of suffering.

And somehow, despite all of it, Rumple had become a better man than he ever was.

A better father.

A better hero.

A better person.

Peter Pan looked away.

The realization hurt far more than any magical wound.

Nearby, Belle knelt beside Rumple's body.

Her fingers trembled as she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

"You idiot," she whispered through tears.

Pan blinked.

Belle smiled sadly.

"He always did this."

No one answered.

"He'd pretend he was selfish," she continued, her voice breaking. "Pretend he only cared about himself."

A tear slid down her cheek.

"But every time it mattered..."

She looked down at Rumple.

"He chose us."

The silence that followed felt unbearable.

Pan found himself unable to move.

Unable to leave.

For the first time in centuries, he wished he could turn back time.

Not to reclaim youth.

Not to gain power.

Just...

To be a father.

A proper one.

But magic didn't work that way.

Nothing could undo the past.

The heroes eventually began preparing to take Rumple's body home.

Home.

The word echoed through Pan's mind.

Rumple had found one.

Something Pan himself had never managed.

The group slowly moved away, exhausted from battle and grief.

No one noticed the swirl of green magic gathering beneath the trees.

No one noticed the shadow that followed them.

Hours passed.

Night descended.

One by one, the lights in Storybrooke dimmed.

Then Peter Pan moved.

He stepped from the darkness and approached the crypt where Rumple's body had been laid to rest.

For the first time, he felt nervous.

The sensation irritated him.

Yet he couldn't shake it.

The crypt doors opened with a creak.

Inside, moonlight spilled across white stone.

Rumplestiltskin lay peacefully in the center of the room.

Almost sleeping.

Pan stared.

"So this is it."

His voice echoed softly.

"The mighty Dark One."

No response.

No sarcastic remark.

No clever insult.

Nothing.

For centuries Pan had imagined countless endings for Rumplestiltskin.

This wasn't one of them.

Slowly, he approached.

"You know..." he muttered.

"You were always annoyingly stubborn."

Silence.

"You inherited that from me."

Still nothing.

Pan swallowed.

The next words felt impossible.

"I should've stayed."

The confession barely escaped his lips.

Yet once spoken, they could not be taken back.

The crypt remained silent.

The dead offered no forgiveness.

Peter Pan closed his eyes.

Then he made a decision.

A reckless one.

A foolish one.

The kind of decision Rumplestiltskin himself would have made for someone he loved.

Green magic exploded around the chamber.

The walls trembled.

Wind roared through the crypt.

Rumple's body vanished in a flash of emerald light.

Seconds later, the crypt stood empty.

Far away, beyond the realms.

Beyond Storybrooke.

Beyond the reach of ordinary magic.

A storm erupted over Neverland.

Ancient trees bent beneath violent winds.

The island itself seemed to awaken.

At the center of the jungle, Peter Pan appeared carrying Rumple in his arms.

The ground shook beneath his feet.

The island recognized its king.

But this time, Pan hadn't returned for power.

He hadn't returned for immortality.

He hadn't returned to rule.

He had returned for one reason.

There was a place hidden deep within Neverland.

A place no Lost Boy had ever seen.

A cave older than Pan himself.

A cave filled with hundreds of glass containers.

And inside each one...

A heart.

The hearts of witches.

Sorcerers.

Dark fairies.

Monsters.

Trophies collected over centuries.

Souvenirs from victories long forgotten.

Pan looked toward the distant jungle.

Toward the secret cave.

Toward the one chance he had left.

"Don't make me regret this, son."

For the first time in centuries, Peter Pan began to run.

And behind him, deep within the island's ancient magic, something stirred.

Something that should have remained asleep.

Something awakened by the impossible act of bringing Rumplestiltskin home.

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