“I decided to venture into the woods behind my house,” Alice began, her voice soft but deliberate, each word pulling the others into stillness. “They stretch far and wide — so wide even the crows refuse to fly over them. But that night, I needed to escape. My parents were arguing again. Their voices were like knives — not sharp, but dull, sawing through every wall. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

She glanced up briefly. The others were watching, rapt — the flickering candlelight painting their faces in trembling shadows.

“I thought the trees would bring me peace,” she continued. “But the deeper I went, the more the world began to… twist. The trees didn’t look quite right. They were too tall. Too close. Their branches curled like fingers, reaching across the path like they meant to catch me if I dared turn back.”

She turned a page in her notebook, but her voice didn’t falter.

“I lost my way, of course. That’s how these stories always go. But the forest wasn’t just lost — it was wrong. The air didn’t smell like bark or moss. It smelled like rotting lilacs. Sweet at first, then sour. And the leaves…” she leaned forward slightly, “they whispered. Not in wind — in words. I heard them. They said: ‘Turn back. She’s already seen you.’”

Cedric’s brow furrowed. Beatrice pulled her blanket a little tighter around her shoulders.

“Then I heard a voice. Not the leaves this time — a girl’s voice, singing. Light. Melodic. Perfect. Too perfect.” Alice tilted her head. “I should’ve run. I knew that. But somehow, I was already walking toward it.”

She closed the notebook, placing it beside her. She was speaking from memory now — or something deeper.

“I followed a narrow path lined with porcelain dolls nailed to the trees. All of them were missing their eyes.” Her gaze flicked to the group. “One of them had my name carved into its forehead.”

Beatrice gasped — just faintly.

“The singing grew louder as I came to a gate — rusted iron, half-swallowed by ivy. On the other side: a garden. Sort of. The flowers had teeth. Some blinked. Some bled when they swayed.”

Lilith let out a breath, but said nothing.

“I stepped through. The moment I did, the gate vanished behind me. All that remained was a wall of brambles. In front of me, a crooked path of shattered mirrors and shards of glass. I walked. I had no choice.”
“And in each shard, I saw a different version of myself — one smiling too wide. One clawing at the inside of the glass. One with no face at all.”

She paused.

“And then… I saw her.”

The candle crackled.

“The girl from the song. She was standing in the centre of a hedge maze. She wore my clothes. Had my hair. My eyes. But when I called out to her, she turned…” Alice’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “…and smiled with teeth made of black stone.”

The room was silent. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.

“She told me she had taken my place. That this world needed someone new to keep it fed — someone to entertain it. And she…” Alice’s smile was eerie now, just a touch too calm, “…was tired of playing Alice.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

“I ran. Of course I did. But the maze kept shifting. The mirrors cracked. The flowers laughed. I don’t know how long I wandered — hours? Days? I forgot my own name.”

She lifted the notebook again, flicked to the last line, and read it slowly:

“And then I woke up. In my bed. Safe.” A pause. “But the mirror on my wall… had a handprint on the inside.”

Silence.

The candle flickered. Rain tapped faintly against the glass. A branch scratched the window as if it had been listening the whole time.

“…Bravo,” Cedric said at last, his voice low, almost reluctant.

Beatrice looked pale. “I didn’t like the dolls,” she murmured.

Lilith stared at Alice for a long moment. “You ever really been in those woods?”

Alice just shrugged, closing her notebook with a soft snap.
“Who’s to say?”