The riverbank is warm, but Alice feels cold. She's been sitting here for an hour, her fingers gripping a daisy stem she hasn't snapped. The chain lies unfinished in her lap—a circle that refuses to close. She's been watching the hole since breakfast. It sits at the base of the hedge, a dark mouth in the earth, ringed by roots that look like fingers. Every few minutes, she thinks she sees a flicker of white fur, a glint of gold chain. But nothing emerges. The hole just waits. "You'll be late for tea," her sister had said, not looking up from her book. Alice hadn't answered. She couldn't explain that she'd already missed tea. She'd missed yesterday's tea, and the day before that. She'd been sitting here since the first time the rabbit ran past, muttering about the Queen and a trial and tarts that had been stolen from a table that didn't exist yet. A daisy stem snaps in her grip. She looks down at her hands. They're trembling. Not from cold. From something else—a pressure behind her ribs, a question she hasn't formed into words. What if I go down there and never come back? The thought should terrify her. But instead, it feels familiar. Like she's already asked it. Like she's already answered. She stands. The daisy chain falls, unwinding at her feet. The hole is darker now. Or maybe it's just the sun, dipping behind the treeline, pulling the light away. She takes one step. Then another. Her shadow stretches toward the opening, reaching ahead of her like a hand. Somewhere below, a watch ticks. And Alice knows—with the certainty of a dream she's already had—that she's about to fall again. Not for the first time. And not for the last.