The grass is damp beneath Alice's knees. She presses her palm flat against it, feeling the cool earth pulse once — a slow, deliberate heartbeat that vibrates up through her fingers. Beside her, Dinah's fur is warm, each breath a small puff of steam in the chill air. Across the garden, the White Rabbit stands like a statue carved from moonlight. His pocket watch ticks — a sound so loud it seems to come from inside Alice's own skull. Tick. Tick. Tick. He hasn't moved since she knelt. His eyes are fixed on something beyond the hedge, something that has turned the frantic rabbit to stone. "Dinah," Alice whispers, her voice barely a thread, "what does he see?" The cat flicks an ear. Her green eyes are calm, watchful — she has seen this before, perhaps. In the long afternoons by the river, when Alice's sister read aloud and the world felt safe, Dinah would watch the shadows lengthen with that same quiet knowing. A breeze stirs. It carries the scent of pepper and roses, of something burning far away. The watch ticks on. And then the White Rabbit's head turns — slowly, as if his joints are rusted — and he looks directly at Alice. His eyes are no longer panicked. They are empty. A void where urgency used to live. "You shouldn't have come here," he says. His voice is flat, like a bell that has forgotten how to ring. Alice's hand tightens in Dinah's fur. The cat purrs, a low rumble that vibrates through the earth. And somewhere in the dark, a clock begins to chime a time that doesn't exist.