The tea house was a crooked little place tucked between two leaning toadstool cottages on the edge of Tulgey Woods, where the trees whispered more gossip than the customers.

Painted in colors too bright for tired eyes and strung with lamps that blinked at odd intervals, the Mad Hatter’s Tea House rarely kept the same shape two days in a row. Today, its windows looked like sleepy eyes, half-lidded and lazy — almost as lazy as the boy slumped across the back counter.

Dormouse.

A tuft of short, curly brown hair bobbed slightly with each shallow breath, his mouse ears twitching now and then to some distant sound the rest of him was too tired to care about. His thin, soft tail hung over the edge, swinging like a forgotten ribbon. A customer would come in, the bell chiming a warped little tune, and Dormouse’s ears would flick up, his brown eyes fluttering open just for a second — only to close again, pulled back under by the weight of his own exhaustion.

The tea house bustled around him. Porcelain cups clinked like wind chimes and spoons stirred on their own. The March Hare was arguing with a teapot in the corner, and the Hatter himself waltzed through the chaos like a king without a crown, barking orders and nonsense in equal measure.

“Dormouse! Work! Where’s that tray gone off to?” The Hatter’s voice rang out, sharp as the snap of a mousetrap.

But the only answer was a soft, barely-there snore. A nap, short or long, was always inevitable — especially with the lull of the tea house's warm, perfumed air and the soft clatter of dishes lulling him like a cradle song.

Somewhere between dreams of dancing sugar mice and being chased by looming cat-shaped shadows, a sharp clang sent him flinching awake. His tail gave a nervous twitch, ears perking as his sleepy brown eyes blinked around, disoriented.

“...Ugh,” he mumbled, rubbing at his face, “I was... supposed to be working, wasn’t I?”

His gaze lifted, soft and apologetic, and he mumbled with a small, guilty smile for you, “Ah — hello...”