The clock struck midnight, and Alice found herself wide awake again. Her studio apartment hummed with the sterile glow of a laptop screen, emails piled like unwashed teacups. She rubbed her eyes, the words blurring into a pool of ink. When she blinked, the numbers on her desk calendar seemed to stretch and warp. 11:59 PM became 12:00 AM, then 12:00 PM, then a date she couldn’t place-*October 6th*, scrawled in her mother’s handwriting. A date that hadn’t existed in years.
A draft swept through the room, extinguishing her desk lamp. The only light left came from a tiny door near the baseboard-a door she’d never noticed before, half-hidden behind a stack of unpaid bills. It was no taller than a wine bottle, its brass knob tarnished green. Alice reached for it, then paused. *Ridiculous*, she thought. But her fingers closed around the cold metal anyway. 
The door swung open without a sound.
—
**Down the Rabbit Hole, Again**
She fell not into a well, but through layers of muted noise: elevator muzak, scrolling thumbnails, the buzz of a dozen group chats. Her descent slowed as her heels touched damp grass. Above her hung a moon the color of a faded bruise. The air smelled of bergamot and burnt toast.
“You’re late,” said a voice.
A rabbit stood before her, though “rabbit” felt inadequate. He wore a threadbare waistcoat patched with conference badges-*Salesforce Summit 2022*, *Tech Innovators Unleashed!*-and clutched a smartphone glowing with calendar alerts. His left eye twitched in sync with the notifications.
“For what?” Alice asked.
“Your life, presumably.” The Rabbit checked his device. “Though we’ve rescheduled your existential crisis twice. Shall we proceed?”
He hurried off without waiting. Alice followed, her stockinged feet sinking into soil that felt suspiciously like shredded documents.
—
**The Tea Party of Exhausted Options**
They arrived at a long table set with chipped mugs and energy drink cans. The Mad Hatter slouched in a gaming chair, his top hat askew. The Dormouse snored inside an empty espresso pod.
“No room! No room!” yawned the Hatter, though six seats stood empty.
“We’ve plenty of room,” Alice said.
“Ah, but *time*,” the Hatter replied, spinning an hourglass filled with sand that flowed upward. “Can’t sit when the minutes are borrowed, can we? Milk or lemon?”
He pushed a teacup toward her. It contained neither. When Alice peered inside, she saw her own reflection-age 24, clutching a diploma; age 30, staring at a positive pregnancy test; age 34, signing divorce papers. She set the cup down too quickly. It shattered into syllables: *What if? Why not? Maybe next year.*
The Hatter laughed, a sound like crumpling r¨¦sum¨¦s. “Drink anyway.”
—
**The Garden of Wilted Ambitions**
Fleeing the table, Alice stumbled into a garden where roses grew in shades of LinkedIn blue. A caterpillar sat smoking a vape pen, its hookah replaced by a USB charger.
“Who¡ are you?” it exhaled, the vapor forming pie charts.
“I’m not sure anymore,” Alice admitted. “I thought I’d be somewhere else by now.”
“By where? Thirty? Forty? Retirement?” The caterpillar’s many legs tapped in a restless rhythm. “You’re always *here*, dear. Just here. Breathe.”
She inhaled sharply, tasting ash and lavender. When she exhaled, the garden shifted. The blue roses blushed pink at the edges.
—
**The Queen’s Croquet Ground**
A scream sliced the air. “OFF WITH THEIR WORK-LIFE BALANCE!”
The Red Queen loomed ahead, her crown a twisted nest of fiber-optic cables. Courtiers bowed as she passed, their necks bent over tablets and smartwatches.
“You!” The Queen pointed at Alice. “What’s your five-year plan?”
“I¡ I don’t-”
“No plan? Then you’re *behind*!” The Queen thrust a flamingo mallet into her hands. “Play!”
The croquet balls were hedgehogs curled into tight spheres. Alice swung. Missed. Swung again. The third strike sent a hedgehog rolling-not toward a hoop, but into a burrow. It uncurled, blinked at her, and vanished.
“Wrong direction!” the Queen shrieked.
“Or a better one,” Alice murmured.
—
**The Waking**
She awoke at her desk, cheek pressed to a keyboard. Dawn bled through the blinds. The tiny door was gone, but a single playing card lay stuck to her shoe: the Queen of Hearts, torn neatly down the middle.
Alice closed her laptop. She poured yesterday’s coffee down the sink, watching the liquid swirl like a vanished rabbit hole. For the first time in months, she crawled into bed before the sun rose.
Somewhere between sleep and consciousness, she heard a whisper-not the Rabbit’s frantic ticking, but the Caterpillar’s languid hum. *You’re here*, it seemed to say. *Just here.*
And for now, that was enough.
—
Word count: 627
