The pocket watch ticks. It has always ticked, but tonight the sound is louder. Sharp. Each second a small hammer on an anvil. The White Rabbit presses it to his ear, shakes it, listens again. The hands are spinning backward now—slowly, deliberately, as if time itself has turned around to stare at him. Behind a mushroom cap the size of a carriage wheel, Alice watches. Her fingers grip the gills, the soft flesh cool and damp. She has seen many strange things since she fell—a caterpillar who smokes philosophy, a cat who disappears until only his grin remains—but she has never seen the Rabbit afraid. Not like this. Dinah sits at Alice's feet, tail curling in a slow, lazy S. The cat's green eyes track the Rabbit's every twitch with the patience of a predator who has already decided he is not worth the chase. "She'll have my head," the Rabbit mutters. Not to Alice. To the watch. To the universe. "She'll have my head and my coat and my watch and she'll hang my ears on the wall." Alice opens her mouth to ask who. But she knows. The Queen. Always the Queen. The watch lets out a chime—a single, discordant note that hangs in the air like a question mark. The Rabbit freezes. His nose twitches. His ears swivel. From somewhere deep in the forest, a low rumble. Not thunder. Something heavier. A gate opening. A sentence being passed. "She knows," the Rabbit whispers. He looks at Alice for the first time, his eyes wet and wild. "She knows I stopped." Alice stands. The mushroom cap tilts, releasing a puff of violet spores. She steps forward, one hand outstretched. Dinah rises, stretches, and follows. "Then run," Alice says. "But this time, take me with you." The Rabbit stares at her. For a moment, the watch hangs silent. Then the hands begin to spin forward again—fast, desperate, catching up on lost time. He grabs her wrist. His fur is cold. His grip is iron. They run. Behind them, the forest exhales. And somewhere in the dark, a grin forms in the air, lingers, and fades.