The watch ticks in Alice's palm, each beat a small hammer against her ribs. She doesn't remember taking it from the White Rabbit. She doesn't remember crossing the hedge or stepping into the mushroom field. But here she is—hem of her blue dress damp with dew, breath shallow, ears straining for something just beyond hearing. The mushrooms rise around her like crooked teeth, some taller than her head, others squat and blotched with violet spots. A faint blue glow pulses from their gills, synchronized with the watch's rhythm. She counts ten ticks. Twenty. The field does not end. The air tastes of copper and honey. 'You're late.' The whisper curls around her left ear, but when she spins, there is nothing—only the gap between two toadstools where a shadow seems to breathe. She holds the watch higher. Its crystal face catches a sliver of moonlight, and in that reflection, she sees a pair of amber eyes blink slowly. 'For something,' the voice continues, 'but not what you think.' The grin appears first—a floating crescent of teeth, impossibly wide, impossibly patient. Then the stripes, shimmering into existence like smoke taking form. The Cheshire Cat perches on a mushroom cap, his body half-woven from the dark, his tail curling into a question mark that breaks apart before it finishes. Alice's fingers tighten around the watch. The ticking slows. 'Everyone tells me I'm late,' she says, her voice steadier than she feels. 'The Rabbit. The Hatter. Even the Queen.' The Cat's grin widens. 'And you believed them all.' He leans forward, his body dissolving as he moves, until only his face hangs in the air before her—eyes now serious, the amusement draining like water from a cracked cup. 'The watch is not counting seconds,' he says. 'It is counting choices. Listen.' She presses it to her ear. Beneath the tick, there is something else—a sound like footsteps on a distant stair, a door swinging shut, a child laughing somewhere far below ground. The rhythm is uneven. It skips. It hesitates. 'How many choices?' she whispers. But the Cat is gone. Only the grin remains, and it is fading, curling at the edges like burned paper. 'Enough to get lost,' says the dark air where he was. 'Or found.' The watch shudders in her hand. The ticking becomes urgent. And from the heart of the mushroom field, where the glow is thickest, she hears the first note of a song she almost remembers—the Mock Turtle's voice, drawn out and mournful, carried on a breeze that smells of salt and tears. Alice steps forward. The mushrooms part. Beyond them, the sea is waiting.