This isn't the first time Alice has had this dream.

She's dreamed about Wonderland quite a few times since her first adventure there as a child, even now as an adult. She always knows she's dreaming, and it's always a pleasant dream, unlike the dizzying ups and downs of the original story her childhood self imagined. She almost always dreams of the later parts of Wonderland — the garden and the Queen's castle, the strange woods and stranger creatures there.

This time, though, she's in the hallway of doors. There's no talking doorknob at the end of the room this time, just the glass table. Excitement stirs in Alice's chest. She remembers how to do this, no pool of tears required.

There's no key on the table, just the bottle. Alice picks it up, examining the label on instinct. Drink me, just like the first time. She squints at the door, too small for her to turn the knob. Maybe it's unlocked, this time.

Nothing to do but find out. She brings the bottle to her lips, drinking deeply until she's just the height of the doorframe, and tries the knob.

Locked.

Frowning to herself, Alice glances up. There's still no key on the table. She turns around and nearly trips over a small gold box.

"Fine," she mutters to the room, to the dream. She takes out a cookie and takes a tiny bite, wincing against the vertigo as she grows immediately, until her head nearly brushes the ceiling.

Still no key.

Alice's eyes start to burn with tears, but she blinks them back hurriedly. She knows better than to cry at this size. She tries kicking at the little door, but it doesn't budge. She looks around for the key, even checks the pockets of the apron and skirt she's always wearing in the Wonderland dream, but there's nothing.

Just like the first time, this room has her trapped, and unlike the first time, there's no reasonable way out. Then again, the first time wasn't reasonable either. This room is supposed to upset her. Supposed to make her cry. Even in a rerun of an old dream.

A tear runs down Alice's cheek. She wipes it away before it can fall. She's not going to cry, she won't. She's not going to get upset just because the room wants her to cry. She won't do it.

Her lip trembles. She presses her fingertips against the corners of her eyes and they come away wet, tears trickling down her fingers. She hiccups a sob, reaching into her pocket for her handkerchief.

More tears well up, spilling over and splashing to the ground before she can catch them with her fingertips. Sobbing in frustration, Alice presses her handkerchief to her eyes, managing to soak up some of the tears, though some escape, streaming down her cheeks and falling onto her apron and the tiled floor, splashing heavily. Alice sobs again, the tears flowing faster.

The handkerchief doesn't last long. Soon the fabric is soaked through, tears dripping as heavily from the fabric as they would be from her eyes. Alice wrings it out, a deluge of tears joining the growing puddle on the floor. Tears are pouring from Alice's eyes now, thick streams down her face, falling from her cheeks and dripping from her chin. She wipes her cheeks with her fingertips, scattering tears everywhere, and fresh tracks spill down immediately.

Alice keeps crying. She doesn't know how long. She doesn't know how to stop. She looks around for the bottle, but it's nowhere to be found. The tears are starting to form a pool around her, getting her socks and the edge of her skirt wet. She covers her face with her hands, less to stop the tears and more to shield her eyes from the light of the room — crying so much is giving her a headache. She can feel the tear-tracks as they spill from her eyes. There are at least four on each side, all constantly overflowing, the tears dripping past the cradle of her hands and falling from her chin.

Finally, something bumps against Alice's knee. She drops her hands from her face. It's the bottle, drifting in the pool of tears. She picks it up, brings it to her mouth as tears keep pouring down her face, sobbing almost too hard to take a sip —

— Alice wakes up in her bed, her face wet with tears. There's a damp patch on her pillow, and her eyes are still stinging. A few more tears fall onto the soaked fabric that's all that remains of the pool of tears she cried. Then she flips her pillow over and settles back down into bed. Maybe she still has a chance to see the garden tonight.