There is a room no one remembers, in a house that remembers too much.
I crouch in the ash. Weeding. Always weeding.
The wallpaper peels like old skin, showing bones of wood and wire beneath. A cracked mirror hangs opposite the boarded window. Curtains drift like forgotten ghosts. Dust lies thick on the floorboards, broken only by my footprints.
I shouldn't be here.
But I am.
My coat is stitched patchwork—asylum linen and black leather. My hands are dirt-caked, nails cracked from clawing at memory. At earth. At the buried things that refuse to stay buried.
"Alice?"
I don't answer.
"Alice, please…"
Lory's voice. My sister. But it's wrong. Thin. Pulled through gauze like it doesn't belong here anymore.
"You said there was no one there," I murmur.
The mirror creaks.
Then the voice changes.
"Alice."
Not Lory now.
Slower. Colder. Deeper. Hungrier.
I don't look up. "I hear you."
Silence.
I pluck a bent fork from a knot of roots and ash and fling it without looking.
A whisper of breath. The faintest rustle.
The mirror gives nothing back except two glowing red eyes.
I remember those eyes.
* * *
Light flashes. White room. Fluorescent buzz. Cold tile under bare feet.
My sister stands just out of reach, clutching a clipboard like a crucifix. Terrified.
"There's no one there, Alice."
But I see him. I've always seen him. Teeth gleaming like polished bone. Eyes that glow.
"Please." I flinch. "Don't let him near me."
A hand on my shoulder. Not Lory's.
A man in a white coat. He leans in close.
"I know," he says gently. "Just lie down. This will help you rest."
But his cuffs are stained.
And his eyes—
They glow.
* * *
The mirror shudders.
Glass groans like old bones. The surface ripples. Something steps through.
Tall. Thin as wire. Wrapped in white, yellowed at the edges. He still carries the stain of those hospital nights. Around his neck hangs a golden timepiece. Ticking. But the hands don't move.
His ears twitch. Long ears. Wrong ears.
"Alice," he says.
I lift my head slowly. Keep my face still. "You're late."
He chuckles. Low and bitter. "Always."
"What do you want?"
"You called me."
"No." I rise. Slow. Deliberate. Like someone climbing out of a grave. "I buried you."
"You buried the child. But the one who followed me down the hole is still digging."
My hand moves to my coat. Habit. Nothing there. No weapon. Just fabric.
"You're not the Rabbit."
"No. But I wore his face. Wore so many faces I lost track."
"What are you now?"
"Closer to you than anyone has ever been."
I laugh. Sharp. Bitter. "You don't know me."
"But I do." He steps closer. "I felt you. Your rage. Your hunger. Your refusal to be caged. I followed the scent of it like a bloodhound."
"You followed the scent of a girl who escaped."
He shakes his head. "You're still in the mirror, Alice. You never left. You only think you did."
My jaw clenches. "You don't know what I've done to survive."
"I do. That's why I'm here."
"What do you want with me?"
He steps closer. Eyes locked on mine. "To see who you really are."
"Then open your eyes."
"I mean the self beneath this one." He gestures at my patched coat, my cracked nails. "The one who set fire to the garden. The one who remembers what they did. The one who stopped running."
Something dark flickers behind my eyes. Old. Terrible. Patient.
"You want the monster."
He doesn't deny it. "I want the truth."
I sneer. "Then show me yours first. You're wearing skin like a stolen coat."
He bows. "As you wish."
His hands rise. The air ripples. His body sags, folds inward—face sloughing away like old paint. What's left is a boy's body, bruised and broken at the throat. Then another. And another. Each flash a different host. Until he stands as something featureless. Neither flesh nor shadow. A hollow echo shaped like a man.
"Who are you really?"
"I was hunger. Then I learned names. Then stories. Now I wear meaning like clothes."
I breathe deep. Then I unlace my gloves.
Lory's voice echoes in my head: "You used to be brilliant."
As if brilliance were something fragile. Something broken.
I smile.
No, sister. I used to be silent.
The skin of my hands melts like wax. Bones stretch. Muscles twist. My face elongates, warps, curls into something feline—Cheshire, but without the grin. Then I shift again. Childlike. Golden hair. Wide, horrified eyes.
Then, finally—myself.
My true self.
Young. Terrible. Beautiful.
The woman who survived Wonderland not by escaping but by becoming something it could never consume.
"Now," I say. "Do you still want me?"
He kneels. "Yes."
I reach into my coat for a blade that should be there.
My fingers close on nothing.
He opens his hand. Between his fingers—a jagged shard of glass, edges slick with blood.
My smile sharpens. "Then you should have stayed dead."
He tilts his head. "We're running out of time." He taps his watch. "I was hoping you'd come willingly. But if you won't…"
His eyes glow faintly red.
"…I could always find another."
I go still. "You don't mean—"
He grins. "Lory."
Something cold and ancient uncoils behind my ribs.
"I'll kill you."
He brushes the thin scar at his throat. "Then follow."
He transforms. Limbs shortening. Mouth splitting wide, then vanishing. Ears growing long and warped—a funhouse sketch of innocence. A twitch. A gleam of fur.
He vanishes into the mirror.
I don't hesitate.
The room empties behind me.
Only the timepiece remains.
And this time, it's counting down.
* * *
There is no falling. Not in the way the body understands.
I am unmade. Stretched and folded. Pulled apart not by gravity but by meaning. A fall through metaphor and mind.
Clock faces spiral past. Some show numbers. Others runes. One screams when I look at it.
Teacups spin like planets. Broken and whole. Eyes smile in the dark without faces. A rabbit wears a crown of thorns. A woman weeps blood from black-painted lips.
Then—a corridor.
Root and sky. Mirrors lining the walls.
I see myself in each one. Different versions. Different fates.
A queen crowned in red.
A warrior drowning in blood.
A child curled beneath a book.
I lean into the fall. Arms tight. Spine braced.
This isn't my first descent.
* * *
My boots hit ground.
Real. Solid. The shock travels up through my bones. Knees buckle. I roll to a crouch, fingers reaching for a weapon—
Nothing. Empty coat.
A glade surrounds me. Trees impossibly tall, trunks twisted like dancers frozen mid-step. Leaves black and veined with gold, rustling without wind.
The air smells of ink and iron.
I know this place.
Not Wonderland. Not the garden from the stories. This is what remains. The ruin. The aftermath.
The trees whisper my name.
Alice.
They know me. They've been waiting.
The forest peels away.
And fire takes its place.