The twilight air hung thick and still, like held breath. The Cheshire Cat sat motionless on a low-hanging branch, his usual grin nowhere to be seen. Below him, a shallow puddle had formed in a hollow of the twisted roots, catching the last of the day's light in a mirror of amber and violet. He leaned forward, his striped head descending until his own reflection stared back at him. For a long moment, he simply looked. No flicker of mischief crossed his eyes. No riddle danced on his tongue. The reflection looked back—a creature of vanishing and apparition, of secrets and smirks—and for once, it offered nothing. "Who are you when no one is watching?" he whispered to the water. The reflection offered no answer, only the same unreadable gaze. A night-breeze stirred the leaves, and the puddle rippled, distorting his face into fragments. He did not look away. Somewhere in the distance, a clock began to strike. The Cheshire Cat's ear twitched, but he remained, staring into the dark water as if searching for a door that had not yet appeared.