This story, like all her stories, is for the boy on the bench. The boy who looks at the night sky and wonders about all the possibilities and secrets the universe has yet to reveal to him.

My dearest daydreamer, I’m going to share one of my secrets with you. A little piece of magic that I hope brings you a moment of joy.

The Dreamer doesn’t know how she discovered this place. One night, she was slipping into a deep, restful sleep, and somewhere just at the edges of a dream, she found herself standing next to the bench. The bench was no more than a wide, worn plank of knotted wood resting on top of ancient tree stumps.

Before the dreamer could take in her surroundings, she sat on the bench. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, at that moment, to sit down. The Dreamer looked up, her breath catching, as she started to take in the ambience. It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. The kind of place that is too beautiful to be real. 

In front of her, there is a vast lake surrounded by tall grey mountains topped with ice and snow. The dark blue water of the lake is a mirror reflecting the moonlight that ripples across the surface. The lake is edged with stones and pebbles, and the water laps against the rocks, gently rolling back and forth, adding a lyrical quality to the peace of this place. The full moon hangs low in the sky. The moon is always full here; she is safely nestled between the mountains, her moonglow highlighting their snowy peaks. Her light softens the contrast of the dark grey rocks. The inky black sky is scattered with twinkling stars. Little pools of light illuminate the darkness.

One night, the Dreamer returned to the bench, finding a boy sitting there. The first night, they didn’t speak. They both sat on the bench listening to the stars. In this place, it isn’t just the moon that sighs with contentment, but the stars talk. They call to each other, sharing their ancient tales of wonder.

The Dreamer returned to the bench the next night, and the boy was there again. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the moon and stars. This continued night after night until something remarkable happened; she started to tell her story. It was strange to hear her voice in this quiet place. The Dreamer whispered her words softly to the boy; they slowly slipped out, carried away on a cool breeze over the lake. The words of the story glowed to life. The contented moon brightened a little more for the Dreamer and the boy on the bench. The stars, no longer whispering to each other, listened to the Dreamer, captivated by her tales. Her words painting colourful pictures filled with life and joy and all the stuff in between.

The Dreamer returns to the bench each night to share her stories. She sits at one end of the weathered bench, and the boy sits at the other. He listens to her whimsical tales, watching her words come to life. The words of her stories twirl around them, dancing and skipping, rainbows of vivid colours. It is in this enchanted place, in the cool darkness, suspended in the moment between sleep and awake, that magic happens. This is the place where the Isle of Neverwas was born.

For my daydreamers, mischief-makers and restless souls. Welcome to the Isle of Neverwas. You are home.