The pocket watch trembles in his paw. Its golden casing, warm from constant handling, catches the dying light filtering through the canopy above. The White Rabbit's whiskers twitch as his thumb traces the cracked glass face—always checking, always measuring, always finding himself wanting. Dinah's tail flicks once, a slow metronome of feline patience. She has watched this creature since they entered the wood, his frantic energy a curious contrast to the stillness of the mushroom-ringed glade. Her green eyes, half-lidded, track every tremor in his long ears. Alice steps closer. Her shoes make no sound on the carpet of moss and dead leaves. She has seen him before—a blur of white fur and desperation, always clutching that watch, always muttering about being late. But she has never stopped him. Never asked the question that now presses against her lips like a key against a lock. 'What are you running from?' The words hang in the air. A single raindrop falls from a leaf above, striking the watch face with a tiny, perfect chime. The Rabbit's ears snap rigid. His head turns slowly, as if pulled by invisible threads, and his eyes—those wide, pink-rimmed eyes—meet hers. For the first time, he does not look at his watch. He looks at her. His mouth opens, but no sound emerges. The watch ticks. Once. Twice. A third time, louder now, insistent, as if the seconds themselves are growing impatient. 'It's not what I'm running from,' he whispers at last, his voice a dry rustle of old leaves. 'It's what's running after me.' Dinah's tail stops. The forest holds its breath. From somewhere deep in the wood, a low, rhythmic pounding begins—not footsteps, not drums, but something older. The earth itself seems to shudder in time with the Rabbit's racing heart. The watch hand twitches forward. A minute lost. Another minute gone. And the Rabbit's face—that perpetual mask of panic—softens into something far more terrible: resignation. 'You shouldn't have followed me,' he says, and turns, and runs. The pocket watch dangles from his paw, its chain glittering like a silver scar through the gloom. Alice watches him disappear between the trees, the sound of his footfalls swallowed by the growing rhythm of that unseen pursuit. Dinah rises, stretching her front paws forward, then her back, her claws kneading the moss. She looks up at Alice and meows—not a question, but a statement. A ready signal. Alice touches the key at her throat. It is warm. It is always warm now. 'He's wrong,' she says softly, more to herself than to the cat. 'I was meant to follow.' And she does. The forest closes behind them like a mouth swallowing a secret.