Alice's fingers are cold. The dirt beneath them is dark, almost black, and it clings to her skin like it doesn't want to let go. She draws the letters slowly—A-L-I-C-E—each stroke a small act of defiance against a world that keeps forgetting her name. A rustle in the leaves above. She doesn't look up. "That's not your name, you know." The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. She knows it well by now—the lazy, curling tone of something that has all the time in the world and intends to use every second. Alice keeps tracing. "It is my name." "Is it?" The grin appears first, floating in the dark canopy like a crescent moon carved from shadow. The rest of the cat follows slowly, stripes materializing one by one. "You've been called many things since you fell. 'Child.' 'Impertinent.' 'Off-with-her-head.' Are you sure 'Alice' is still yours?" She stops. Her finger hovers over the last E. "What else would I be?" "Anything you choose." The Cheshire Cat's body solidifies on a low branch, tail curling around the wood. His eyes gleam. "But choosing is the hard part. Much easier to let the world name you. The Queen calls you a nuisance. The Hatter calls you a puzzle. What do you call yourself?" Alice looks at the letters in the dirt. They look foreign now, like someone else wrote them. "I don't know," she whispers. "Then stay here," the cat purrs. "Stay undefined. It's safer." She feels the weight of his words—the temptation to remain unshaped, unclaimed. But safety is not the same as home. Slowly, she presses her palm over the name. The dirt is cold. The letters smear. "No," she says. "I'm Alice. Because I say so." When she looks up, the branch is empty. But the grin lingers a moment longer, and she swears she hears a whisper on the wind: "Then prove it." The woods fall silent. Somewhere in the distance, a pocket watch ticks.