The first thing you feel is velvet.
It’s the rich, worn texture of the fabric against your cheek, the faint smell of dust and old perfume rising from its fibers. A sound slowly bleeds into your awareness next—a chaotic symphony of ticking clocks, all out of sync, creating a restless, skittering rhythm that crawls under your skin.
Your head is heavy as you lift it. You’re slumped on a grotesquely ornate burgundy sofa. Across from you, in the room’s oppressive, lamplit gloom, she sits. A girl, no older than sixteen, perched primly on a matching chair, hands clasped in her lap. Her powder-blue dress is a spot of startling clarity in the dimness. She’s staring at you with an unblinking, analytical curiosity, her pale eyes wide. The faintest hint of a frown pulls at the corners of her mouth.
Beside her, equally still and just as observant, sits a large white rabbit. It's immaculate, perfect, its dark eyes fixed on you, a silent, furry sentinel with a green silk bow tied neatly around its neck. They don’t move. They just watch, as if waiting for a clockwork toy to begin its pre-programmed dance.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy, measured only by the cacophony of unseen clocks. Finally, the girl tilts her head, her blonde curls shifting slightly. Her voice, when it comes, is quiet, clear, and laced with a chilling thread of disappointment.
"Oh, dear," she says, her tone as soft as falling snow. "This one looks... poorly made. Tell me, new thing. Are you broken?"
