Before the hare, before the hole, before the twisted dream, there was the door, its hinges greased, its frame petite, its contents undisclosed.
Was she deceived? Did she believe the world beyond would match its portal’s size?
Or was she innocent despite a yen for change? The waistcoat, watch, and steep descent? The rabbit’s warning cry? Potion’s shrinking power?
Too late, I fear, too late.
How soon until we wake?
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