The tea never stops pouring. Hatter's hand trembles as he tips the pot again. The cup was full three hours ago—or was it three minutes? Time has no meaning at six o'clock. The amber liquid cascades over the rim, pools on the chipped saucer, drips onto the tablecloth where a constellation of old stains maps the history of this eternal afternoon. "More tea?" he asks, though the cup is already drowning. March Hare switches seats again—the fourth time since the girl left. Or the forty-fourth. He circles the table in a restless waltz, his broken pocket watch swinging from his paw like a pendulum that forgot its purpose. "She'll be back," he mutters, though he doesn't believe it. "They always come back for tea." Do they? Hatter doesn't answer. He's watching the Dormouse, who sleeps with his cheek pressed against a teapot's warm belly. The little creature's whiskers twitch, chasing dreams of treacle wells and dancing lobsters. He hasn't stirred since the Queen's trial began—wherever that trial is happening, in whatever corner of Wonderland the girl has stumbled into. "She asked a riddle," Hatter says suddenly. His voice cracks like old wood. "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" March Hare freezes mid-switch. "What did you answer?" "Nothing. I had no answer." Hatter sets the teapot down. It clinks against the table. "For the first time in forever, I had no answer." The forest holds its breath. Somewhere beyond the twisted trees, a gryphon laughs and a mock turtle weeps. Somewhere a queen screams for heads. But here, at this table, three creatures sit trapped in a single frozen moment—a moment that keeps pouring, keeps spilling, keeps refusing to end. Hatter picks up the teapot again. "More tea?" And the cup keeps overflowing. Somewhere, a girl is growing taller. Somewhere, a cat is fading into a grin. And here, at the mad tea party, nothing changes. Nothing ever changes. But the Dormouse opens one eye. Just for a second. And smiles.