At first, he was just a grin. A crescent of luminous, disembodied teeth floating six feet off the ground. Then, as if remembering he had an audience, the eyes appeared—two emerald slits that blinked slowly, one after the other, like distant lighthouses.
Alice found him on a branch of the old Twistwood Tree, which grew in impossible directions—some limbs pointing down into the earth, others curling into their own knots like thoughts trying to escape.
The Cat’s body faded to a whisper of stripes, leaving only his mouth behind. The grin swelled until it filled the whole clearing, teeth like piano keys, each one a different shade of white.
“You’re late,” the grin said.
Alice felt the ground tilt. Not dangerously. Just… reorienting.