in which, certain people do not die in a mass of crumpled metal, jagged railway lines, and so much ashen coal. in which peter stays on with susan in new york city, earning his doctorate to save those he once could not. in which susan sits and corresponds with polly, in which she explores a second womanhood and comes into herself-- finds purpose in women’s studies and holding a hand to those who need it. in which the pevensie’s parents are members of the community, a scholar and a nurse.
in which polly and digory live another 5 or 10 years and greet the elder two with smiles, along with a cousin, lanky now, learned, and his dearest friend. they did not perish, either. they thrive in school, further education, assisted by the pockets of now endeared family friends in exchange for gatherings on the holidays.
in which, only two perished on that train on the way to the professor’s home, after spending a heart warming night of story trading and letter writing in the scrubb’s household, eustace, edmund, lucy and jill huddled up in eustace’s room, windows wide and air almost crisp.
in which, edmund and lucy have been feeling that wardrobe-train-station-painting pinch of magic for a month prior, and the light had returned to their eyes and the spark to their tone and the vigour to their movement. in which they make their peace, with anticipation of a true home to revisit in their stomach, and leave with no regrets ---- written books in the forms of diaries on lucy’s nightstand back in new york, and diaries in the white-out pages of old books in edmund’s.
one is published, fifteen years later, by a sister filled with comfort and a brother given closure, from the comfort of inherited estates turned school-boarding house. the originals of each sit in a wardrobe, dutifully dusted each week.