The tea has been the same temperature for longer than anyone can remember. The Hatter pours again—a slow, deliberate arc from the silver pot—and watches the dark liquid rise past the rim of the cup, spill over, spread across the lace tablecloth in a widening stain. He does not stop. March Hare watches him with something that might be pity, or exhaustion, or both. He has seen this loop before. They all have. The Dormouse is asleep in the sugar bowl, dreaming of treacle wells. The clock on the mantel has no hands. "Hatter," March Hare says, his voice soft, almost gentle. "The cup is full." Hatter blinks. His hand trembles, but he doesn't set the pot down. "Time is broken," he whispers. "I keep pouring because if I stop, I'll have to notice that nothing changes. That it's always six o'clock. That she never comes." March Hare looks at the broken watch in his own paw. The hands tremble at the same spot they've been stuck on for years. He wants to say something comforting, but the truth is: he doesn't know if comfort exists anymore. Not in this wood. Not at this table. A faint giggle drifts from the branches above. The Cheshire Cat's grin materializes in the shadow of a hanging teapot, then fades just as quickly—a reminder that they are being watched, that Wonderland is never still, even when it seems frozen. Hatter finally sets the pot down. He stares at the puddle of tea spreading across the cloth, at his own reflection in the dark surface. Somewhere, distantly, the White Rabbit's footsteps patter past, frantic, always late. "She'll find her way," March Hare says, though he's not sure he believes it. Hatter picks up the pot. Pours again. The cup overflows. And somewhere deeper in the wood, Alice stops at the sound of breaking china and follows it toward the light.