The tea doesn't stop. It never stops. Hatter's hand trembles as he tilts the pot, and a thin amber stream arcs into the cup—the cup that has been full for what feels like forever. He doesn't notice. Or maybe he does, but the motion is older than memory now, carved into his bones by a thousand identical afternoons. The spout clinks against the rim. He sets the pot down. His fingers hover over the sugar bowl, nudging it a quarter inch to the left, then back to the right. The sugar bowl has not moved in years. "It's still six," he murmurs, not quite to anyone. His voice is dry, cracked like old porcelain. He picks up his own cup—the one with the chip shaped like a crescent moon—and stares into the dark liquid as if expecting it to answer. The March Hare is frozen mid-giggle at the other end of the table, one paw suspended over a jam jar, his manic grin fixed like a mask. The Dormouse is curled inside a teapot, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm too slow to be sleep. The clock on the mantel has no hands. Hatter dips his watch into the tea. It sizzles. The second hand—the only one that still moves—begins to spin backward. He watches it with the hollow familiarity of someone who has done this a thousand times before. "She's coming," he says, but the words taste like ash. "She's always coming." And somewhere beyond the trees, a child's laugh drifts through the twilight—or maybe it's the wind. In Wonderland, it's impossible to tell. The tea keeps pouring.