(VII)—
Alice's childhood room lay ensconced in one of Ember Hall's infinite mirror‑realms, which were tucked within a monument crafted by the Sequel.
It was an unassuming chamber, unlike the more extravagant domains held within other mirrors, but to a woman who had dwelled the longest in the Ember Hall, it was the heart of every memory she'd ever dared to cherish.
She knew its every nuance: the faint, persistent scent of rose‑powder and chalk‑ink; the way lamplight pooled on the narrow floor, ivory walls rising to meet crude wooden pilasters that unified beneath a single, domed ceiling.
Thin arcs of dust marked where chair skirts were once mounted across the boards, and a seldom-lit hearth had gathered grime along its edges.
But what truly drew her back was always the old wardrobe tucked beside the draped screen, which had been embroidered with moth wings.
Beneath its weary hem lay a wardrobe, once used to hide her precious ink‑stones.
Inside, behind limp velvet coats, a thin crack beside the left hinge concealed folded folios and scripts sealed in oozing red wax.
Pressing her ear to its door now, the woman would smile at the faint tap of pencil against wood, and envision a ghost of the girl's lifelong habit.
Yet, when opened, the wardrobe revealed only a bachelor's green velvet coat, with one sleeve tucked in as though someone had hugged themselves and then stepped away, leaving the embrace undone.
Concealed within a barely visible narrow gap behind it lay an isolated relic—a crimson‑bound volume with a gilded title that was lustered in half‑light.
"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland."
In the final pages of that storybook, the young Alice had begun to write her own tale, yet it unfolded in tones utterly unlike the original.
It felt detached, as though it had no connection to what came before.
Still, whenever the woman took the book into her hands, her voice would lower into a familiar refrain:
"How can one fathom the workings of a child's mind, when even we cannot see imperfections except as flaws?"
She would then settle in front of the wardrobe, bearing only the anguish of her own knowledge, and read unspokenly.
. . .
"THE END OF TIME"
(Compiled by No One)
Once, there was a girl who had never known she existed.
She dwelt in a house where the sky draped itself around her like a mother's shawl.
Twelve paper-thin windows lined the walls, and a solitary door that was never opened stood mockingly.
Each morning, she would open her eyes, only to find that the world itself was scripting her thoughts.
The world wore many guises.
Sometimes it came as a pale woman whose apron was woven from calendars.
At other times, a boy with pockets brimming with clocks appeared.
Once, a voice addressed her as "dearest," speaking in a tongue no soul had taught her.
She wrote what she was told: that the universe would one day drown in humanity's sorrow.
That at the peal of nine bells, something new would rise.
She chronicled endlessly shifting caves and a fog-draped city of hollow-eyed people.
These visions were never inventions of her own—they were handed to her, and each functioned as a pillar in a universe that teetered on dysfunction.
She never asked: what would come to pass if she simply dropped her pen?
Until the day the door opened.
And a draft of wind slipped through first, followed by a voice young in sound but heavy with age.
It crept through the hinge without crossing the threshold, as though beholding the sight would unleash regret.
"This will be the last time you hear my voice in this sequence. My final request of you does not pertain to all that came before, but merely to uphold a covenant."
Silence fell expectantly.
Then the voice emerged once more, more resonant than before, as if issuing from the hollow of a cathedral:
"You must write this. Retell it, as before. But when all is done, I will never have uttered these words to you, only the name you bestowed upon the Navigator. Once completed… You may depart with my memoir. Ensure it reaches the one I named."
The shadow lingered behind the doorway before drifting away into the corridor.
The door remained half ajar.
This was the first time it had ever opened, and the last it would ever close.
She stared long at the slender gap.
Finally, she rose and drew open her wardrobe with deliberate care.
Inside, she crouched and paused, pulling her knees close beneath her.
She rested the open memoir upon them and set a prepared inkstone beside her.
The girl poised the brush over the first sheet, curling her slender fingers around the handle like a lockpick, before she began to inscribe in deliberate characters across the paper.
Thus commenced the conclusion of the end of time.
. . .
The woman lifted her eyes to the final line.
Her vision blurred as the text began to appear glossy.
"My dearest Yichén, today marks your birth."
She drew in a tremulous breath, curling her spine so that her long, golden tresses brushed her cheeks before draping like a veil across the page.
"Happy birthday, my child."
-End-