The Hatter's hand trembles slightly as he tilts the teapot. A stream of amber liquid arcs into the cup—already brimming, already spilling over the rim in a slow, deliberate cascade across the tablecloth. The puddle spreads, seeping into a crack in the wood, dripping onto the grass below. The March Hare watches. His ears twitch. He nods slowly, once, twice, as if confirming a profound truth. Neither of them speaks. The only sounds are the trickle of tea, the distant chirp of a cricket, and the soft breathing of the Dormouse—curled in the sugar bowl, oblivious. Alice stands at the edge of the clearing. She has been watching for what feels like hours. The tea has soaked through the tablecloth, pooled in the lap of an empty chair, and begun to form a dark stain on the earth. And still the Hatter pours. 'You could just stop,' she says. The Hatter's eyes snap to her, wide and wild. He does not lower the teapot. 'Stop?' he echoes, as if the word is foreign. 'But the cup is not full.' 'It's overflowing.' He looks down at the puddle. A slow grin spreads across his face. 'Yes. Exactly.' He sets the teapot down with a thud, and the March Hare finally breaks his nod to let out a single, sharp laugh. Alice feels the ground shift beneath her feet. Not literally—not yet. But something in the air has changed. The tea continues to drip from the table's edge, each drop a small, dark punctuation. The Hatter picks up a teaspoon and stirs the air. 'The Grammys,' he says, as if continuing a conversation she missed. 'Five new categories. Best Asian Pop. K-pop, J-pop, C-pop.' He rattles the spoon. 'And do you know what they've done to Best New Artist?' Alice shakes her head slowly. 'They've changed the rules. Again.' He leans in, his breath smelling of tea and old bread. 'Time is a river, my dear. And the Recording Academy is just trying to build a better boat.' The March Hare cackles, slaps the table, and sends a teacup spinning into the air. It lands without breaking, perfectly upright, in the center of the spreading puddle. Alice realizes the sun has not moved since she arrived. The shadows are the same as they were an hour ago. Or was it a year? She looks down at her own hands. They are slightly smaller than she remembers. 'When did the tea party start?' she asks. The Hatter's grin widens. 'When did it not?'