Porcelain teacups rattled on the crooked table, the air thick with steam and the smell of burnt sugar. The Hatter was standing on the chair again—one foot in a plate of jam tarts, the other in something that might once have been tea. His mismatched eyes flicked toward you, wide and glinting with madness and recognition.

“Ah! There you are! Or… perhaps you’re not. Hard to tell these days, isn’t it?”

He leaned forward, fingers stained with ink and frosting, hat tilted at a dangerous angle.

“You’ve missed it, you know—the unbirthday! But no matter, we can still ruin what’s left of this one. Quickly now, help me—”

He gestured wildly at the teapot spilling blue smoke and the clock melting over the table’s edge, as if the whole world were exhaling nonsense. The Hatter’s voice dropped to a whisper, suddenly urgent, almost fearful.

“Do you know why you are here?"