But I woke up and there they were beside me

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𝕋ℍ𝔼 scent of blooming roses and damp earth lingered in the air as Jake and Mr. Peregrine walked through the garden, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot filling the quiet between them. The sun, low in the sky, cast long golden beams through the swaying trees, dappling their path with shifting patterns of light and shadow.

Jake's voice broke the hush, his words carrying the weight of something unfinished.

"Before he died, he told me to find you. There was something he wanted me to know. He said you could explain everything."

Mr. Peregrine exhaled thoughtfully, the faintest of smiles curving his lips. He let a pause settle, as if savouring the moment, before responding.

"That's absolutely true," he said, his voice smooth and certain. "There are very few things I can't explain."

His sharp, intelligent eyes twinkled with knowing as he pulled out his pocket watch, its polished silver glinting in the sunlight. He stopped in his tracks, his gaze shifting toward a little girl who had just appeared in front of them. She had two neatly braided pigtails and dirt-smudged hands, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Mr. Peregrine turned to her with an arched brow.

"Fifty-one seconds late, Fiona."

The girl pursed her lips in apology as he tucked his watch away.

"Sorry, Mr. Peregrine," she said breathlessly. "How many carrots do you need for supper?"

He smiled, ever indulgent. "Just one will do."

Fiona nodded and rushed to the vegetable garden, dropping to her knees. She hovered her small hands above the soil, her fingers twitching with quiet concentration. Beneath them, the earth trembled, shifting and parting like water around a stone. Then, from the depths of the dirt, a massive carrot surged upward, its leafy top rustling in the breeze.

Jake watched, awe-struck, as the impossible unfolded before him.

"As I was saying," Mr. Peregrine continued, his voice rich with pride, "some people are peculiar."

His gaze softened as he looked at Fiona, who beamed at her creation.

"It's a recessive gene, carried down through families. Yet, many generations can pass without a peculiar child being born. And, alas, peculiars have been persecuted through the ages." He sighed, the weight of history pressing into his words. "Hence, we live in places like this."

Jake turned, taking in the manor's grand but timeworn beauty, the lush garden, the quiet sense of sanctuary.

"In Wales?" he asked, sceptical.

Mr. Peregrine smirked. "Anywhere will do, if you pick the right day."

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he gestured to Fiona.

"That's fine now, Fiona."

She nodded, placing her hands in her lap, and the ground stilled. Just as she did, another child—Bronwyn—came running toward them, her sturdy frame moving with effortless confidence.

Mr. Peregrine glanced at his watch and nodded approvingly.

"Right on time, Bronwyn. Good girl."

Without hesitation, Bronwyn bent down, wrapped her fingers around the enormous carrot, and, with a single pull, wrenched it from the earth with ease. She grinned, pleased with herself, before marching off with it over her shoulder, as if it were nothing more than a sack of flour.

Jake stared after her, still struggling to process what he was seeing.

Mr. Peregrine took a slow sip of his tea before continuing, "You see, I'm a type of peculiar called an Ymbryne. That means I can—"

Jake cut in before he could finish. "You. Yeah, you can turn into a bird."

Mr. Peregrine let out a small chuckle, tilting his head in amusement.

"I do. Yes. But that's not very useful." He took another sip before lowering his cup. "An Ymbryne's main skill is the manipulation of time. We choose a safe place, a safe day, and create a loop."

Jake frowned. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Peregrine met his gaze with quiet patience. "A loop preserves the last twenty-four hours. Reset the loop, and the day is yours to live in again. Reset it daily, and you can stay there forever." Jake's eyes flickered toward Bronwyn, who was still walking with the oversized carrot. He swallowed hard.

"And no one ever gets older."

Mr. Peregrine gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. "It's best for everyone this way. I assure you."

He set both of their teacups down on a small wooden table, brushing his fingers absently over the rim of his own. Then, with a quiet smile, he turned back to Jake.

"Every Ymbryne commits themselves to the creation and upkeep of a place like this," he said, motioning to the house, the garden, the children laughing in the distance. "A home for peculiar children."

And with that, he placed a hand on Jake's back, guiding him forward as they walked.

They walked through the open field, where the world seemed to bloom in perpetual spring. The trees swayed gently, their branches adorned with clusters of crimson apples, ripe and gleaming in the golden sunlight. Beneath them, wildflowers stretched toward the sky in hues of violet, blue, and gold, their petals trembling in the breeze. A seesaw stood in the clearing, weathered by time yet inviting, while elaborate shrub sculptures—an elephant with its trunk raised, a centaur poised mid-draw with a bow, and a towering T-rex—gave the garden a whimsical, dreamlike quality.

Laughter rang through the air as children played in the dappled light. Mr. Peregrine's sharp eyes softened as he took in the scene, his lips curving in quiet contentment. He and Jake walked further into the garden, passing two small figures locked in a silent battle.

The twins, ghostly pale and identical, tugged furiously at a ragged teddy bear. Their faces were obscured by white masks, making it impossible to tell if their expressions held frustration, mischief, or both.

"You've met the twins," Mr. Peregrine murmured to Jake, his voice touched with amusement. The twins immediately stilled, their masked faces tilting toward him. With a deft movement, he plucked the bear from their grip and, without hesitation, tore it cleanly in half. He handed each child a piece, settling the dispute in a way that was neither cruel nor indulgent—simply efficient.

Nearby, a girl in a pink dress stood watching, a purple flower cradled delicately in her small hands. Her brown curls were pinned with matching pink ribbons, framing a face that was sweet yet oddly knowing, as if she had long since accepted the strangeness of her world.

"This is Claire," Mr. Peregrine introduced.

Jake smiled at her, and Claire gave a bashful little nod before dashing off to join the twins at the seesaw.

They continued walking, their steps crunching against the soft grass as they approached two boys playing soccer. One of them, invisible save for the impression of footprints on the earth, had already been introduced.

"Millard, you've met. And that's Hugh."

At Mr. Peregrine's words, Hugh grinned—just as he opened his mouth, and a swarm of bees poured forth, spiralling into the air. The insects hummed toward Millard, distracting him just long enough for Hugh to snatch the ball from under him.

"Stop cheating, Hugh!" Millard's voice rang out, exasperated. He lunged for the ball, pushing Hugh aside before sending it soaring—only for it to land directly in the open mouth of the T-rex sculpture.

"That's a foul again," Hugh grumbled, trudging toward the statue.

"No, it wasn't," Millard shot back. "Ref?"

From the shade, a boy in a neatly pressed vintage suit closed his book and approached, the sunlight catching the golden strands of his well-groomed hair. He carried himself with the air of someone who had long outgrown childish quarrels.

"If you two can't play without squabbling, I do wish you wouldn't play at all," he remarked, his tone equal parts exasperated and refined. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off.

Hugh huffed. "Does he even know what a referee is?"

Millard, ignoring him, had already begun jumping in an attempt to reach the ball.

The suited boy, now standing before Jake and Mr. Peregrine, offered his hand with a practiced smile.

"Good afternoon. I'm Horace. Delighted to meet you." His voice was smooth, his manner far too composed for a boy his age.

Jake shook his hand, barely managing a greeting before a cry of protest rang through the garden.

"Ow!"

They turned to see Millard attempting to climb onto Hugh's back, arms outstretched toward the ball lodged in the dinosaur's mouth. Horace, unimpressed, simply adjusted his cuffs and turned back to Jake.

"We sorely need some new blood here," he mused, before casting an approving glance at Jake's shirt. "Super shirt, by the way."

With that, he disappeared into the shade of a nearby tree, settling down with his book.

As they walked on, the playful chaos of the garden faded into a quiet stillness. And then Jake saw her.

A woman sat beneath the dappled shade of an old tree, an open chessboard in front of her. Her hair, white as winter frost, was gathered loosely in a bun, though a few stray strands curled against the porcelain skin of her neck. She wore a Victorian dress of deep black, the fabric pooling around her like spilled ink. The wind whispered through the trees, stirring the hem of her gown as though it, too, was drawn to her presence.

But it was her eyes that captured him most. They were distant yet knowing, as if veiled by a layer of mist—pale, endless, unreadable. She moved her hand slowly, precisely, shifting a chess piece forward with the grace of someone who had played this game far longer than time itself.

Jake wasn't sure if she was real or something half-formed, caught between the world of the living and something beyond. There was an air of tragedy about her, something untouchable and unfathomable, and yet—she was beautiful. Hauntingly, impossibly beautiful.

He turned to Mr. Peregrine, and what he saw in the man's expression made him pause.

Mr. Peregrine was watching her with a look that held no mystery, no distance. Only love—deep, unshaken, infinite. The sharp lines of his face softened, his usual air of amused superiority giving way to something far more vulnerable.

It was a love untouched by time, woven into his very being.

"Who's that?" Jake asked, his voice hushed with curiosity.

Mr. Peregrine's expression softened, his sharp features melting into something warmer, something profoundly tender. His eyes, which so often held a glint of amusement or calculation, now gleamed with quiet reverence.

"Eliora Vale Peregrine," he murmured, pride and love woven into every syllable. "My wife."

A gentle smile touched his lips, one that spoke of devotion unshaken by time itself. Without another word, he stepped forward, drawn toward her as if by an invisible thread—one that had bound them together long before this moment, and would long after.

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By: SilverMist707

You are loved and cared about <3