Alice traces a line in the water with her finger, watching the ripples spread and vanish. The river is still. The bank is quiet. She remembers the sound of a pocket watch ticking, the rush of fur and panic, the dark mouth of a hole that swallowed her whole. It's been days. Or hours. Time doesn't move the same way here, on this side. Her sister sits a few feet away, reading, her hand occasionally reaching out to brush Alice's shoulder. Normal. Safe. But the water keeps pulling her gaze. Down there, beneath the surface, she sees something flicker—a flash of gold, a pair of eyes, a grin without a face. She blinks, and it's gone. She pulls her hand back, water dripping from her fingers. The grass is warm. The sky is blue. Everything is exactly as it should be. And yet. She looks to her left, where the roots of an old oak tree twist into the earth. Between them, a shadow darker than the rest. A hole she knows too well. Alice stands. Her sister looks up, asks if she's alright. Alice nods, but her feet are already moving toward the tree. She crouches, peering into the dark. A faint smell of tea and pepper drifts up. She doesn't fall. Not today. But she knows—the hole remembers her. And it's patient. From somewhere deep below, a voice whispers: "We've been waiting." Alice's breath catches. She backs away, step by step, until she's standing on the riverbank again. Her sister calls her name. She turns, forced a smile, and walks back. But the grin stays at the edge of her vision, fading slowly, like a cat who has all the time in the world.