Alice and the Hat of Ever-Changing Purpose
Chapter One: The Arrival of the Box That Wasn’t Sent
It was not a particularly unusual Tuesday morning, at least not until the box arrived.
Alice was in the middle of alphabetising her socks, a hopeless task but one she found soothing, when the doorbell rang three times, reversed itself, and then hiccupped.
She opened the door cautiously.
No one was there. No postman. No stork. Not even a singing telegram in a tutu, which had happened once, but that is a different story. Just a large, square box sat on the doorstep with a look of great dignity for something that was, in essence, made of cardboard.
It had no postage. No return address. No scribble, scrawl, stamp or squiggle.
Only one message, printed on a brass plaque that definitely had not been glued on, read:
“I Was Not Delivered. Do Not Confirm My Arrival.”
Alice blinked. “Well that is terribly suspicious.”
The box shuddered.
She reached out, gave it a polite knock, and was promptly knocked back by an explosion of glittering purple steam and a burst of triumphant organ music.
Out floated a hat.
It was tall. It was slightly sideways. It twitched like it was thinking of something deeply important but also possibly jelly-related. Its brim curled, then straightened, then curled again, and it occasionally changed shape mid-hover. One moment it was a crown, the next a helmet, then a tea cosy, then a wizard’s hat with stars that spelled the word “Probably.”
It hovered just above Alice’s head and declared, in a voice like a velvet trumpet:
“At last. The rightful un-ruler has un-arrived.”
Alice looked up. “Are you… talking to me?”
The hat spun in a pleased little circle.
“You have the aura of confused royalty and the posture of someone too polite to refuse a destiny. You shall do nicely.”
It landed, firmly, on her head.
Alice staggered slightly. “Excuse me, but I don’t recall ordering a destiny.”
“Nonsense. No one orders it. It simply arrives uninvited, like the last pickle on a very large sandwich.”
Just then, there was a crackle from the chimney and a burst of soot, glitter, and a mildly concerned owl.
From it fell Harry Rotter — girl wizard, certified mischief-maker, and Alice’s companion from a previous adventure involving jellyfish clocks and a pudding-based explosion. She landed in a heap of scarves, toast crumbs, and sparkles, wearing one boot and a broomstick that had clearly given up halfway through its flight.
She dusted herself off, adjusted her skew-whiff spectacles, and grinned.
“I smelled unauthorized magic. And fruitcake.”
“Hello, Harry,” Alice said with mild exasperation.
Harry adjusted her scarf and peered at the hat now twitching on Alice’s head. “That’s the Hat of Ever-Changing Purpose, that is. It’s been lost for centuries. Also banned, briefly, for impersonating Parliament.”
The hat preened.
“I contain multitudes. Also some biscuit crumbs.”
“Why is it here?” Alice asked.
Harry poked the floating box, which burped gently.
“Because,” she said, “something’s waking up. Something very old and mostly forgotten. The hat’s chosen you to sort it out.”
“Sort what out?”
The box began to fold itself back into nonexistence. A final puff of parchment slipped out and landed in Alice’s hand. It read:
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN (PROBABLY ALICE):
The Realm of Somewherelse awaits your uncertain return.
Kindly reclaim your unthrone.
— The Occasionally Relevant Court
Alice sighed.
“I was just having a quiet day.”
Harry smiled and adjusted her wand.
“Then it’s time for an adventure. Bring tea.”
Chapter Two: The Hat Declares a Revolution
The hat did not come off.
No matter how gently Alice tried to remove it—or how vigorously it bounced in place shouting instructions—it clung to her head like a crown that had fallen madly in love.
Harry Rotter, sitting on the windowsill with a cup of cocoa and a marmalade crumpet, looked on in amusement.
“It’s bonded,” she said. “You’ve been officially chosen.”
Alice gave the brim a skeptical tug. “Chosen for what?”
The hat spun around her head like a confused weather vane and proclaimed, “To lead the glorious revolution, of course!”
“Revolution?” said Alice.
“What revolution?” asked Harry, through a mouthful of crumpet.
The hat glowed a defiant shade of violet. “The Grand and Mighty Overthrow of the Tyranny of Furniture!”
There was a long pause.
“…I beg your pardon?” said Alice.
“Chairs,” the hat declared. “Oppressive! Tables? Authoritarian! Cupboards have hoarded power for too long. Today we rise.”
Alice crossed her arms. “I like my cupboards.”
The hat wilted slightly. “What about your footstool? He’s been looking at you funny.”
“No he hasn’t.”
“He has ambitions.”
Harry leaned forward, setting her cup on a saucer that immediately tried to roll under the bookshelf. “It’s doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The identity spiral,” Harry explained. “Every time the Hat of Ever-Changing Purpose bonds to someone, it gets a bit… existential. Until it figures out what it’s supposed to be this time, it will try on every possible destiny like shoes at a boot sale.”
The hat snapped back into a proud shape. “I have already tried ‘Wizard Hat,’ ‘Mayor of Dishes,’ and ‘Living Umbrella.’ I am now in my ‘Revolutionary Leader’ phase.”
Alice sighed. “And how long do these phases last?”
“Approximately until lunch,” Harry said. “Then it will probably become a singing kettle again.”
The hat puffed itself up. “We march at noon. For glory, for justice, and for footstools that dare to dream!”
It leapt from Alice’s head, landed on the table, and gave a stirring speech to a teapot, a breadbin, and a very unimpressed cushion.
The cushion rolled over.
The hat puffed. “Resistance already. Excellent.”
Just then, the box reappeared.
This time it knocked politely, rang a tiny triangle, and opened itself. Inside was a stack of official-looking paperwork, an envelope made of folded questions, and a single ticket printed in invisible ink that only appeared when looked at sideways.
Destination: Somewherelse
Purpose: Unclear
Royal Escort Required
Bring Snacks
Harry picked up the ticket. “Looks like the Court of Occasional Importance is ready for you.”
“I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” said Alice.
The hat jumped onto her shoulder and whispered, “That’s exactly what makes you qualified.”
Harry grinned. “You’re doing brilliantly already.”
“Doing what?”
“Unquestionably questionable leadership.”
Alice narrowed her eyes. “Does this involve tunnels, mystery doors, or cheese?”
“All of the above,” said Harry. “And possibly an enchanted typewriter that argues with itself.”
The fireplace flared green. The box folded into a suitcase. The ticket fluttered into Alice’s hand.
And the hat whispered: “The revolution is postponed. It is time to reclaim your unthrone.”
Chapter Three: Through the Corridor of Conditional Exits
The hat insisted they leave by eleven and three-quarters past toast.
This was an awkward time of day, as it neither coincided with breakfast, nor made any sense to the hallway clock, which had politely decided to stop ticking altogether.
“Right,” said Harry, stuffing extra socks into a satchel that already contained a biscuit compass, a portable fog machine, and a folded rubber goat. “We’re headed for the Corridor of Conditional Exits.”
Alice blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” said the hat, now shaped like a ship captain’s hat with a feather that saluted, “that the only way out is to say the wrong password with the correct tone of voice while feeling appropriately unsure.”
“That sounds… complicated,” said Alice.
“Correct,” said Harry. “You’re learning.”
They stepped into the pantry, turned twice on the doormat, knocked on the broom cupboard, and said, “Excuse us, but we may be somewhere we’re not.”
The pantry wall split open like a yawn, revealing a tunnel made of doors, staircases, and anxious-looking carpet tiles that shuffled aside as they entered.
The Corridor of Conditional Exits stretched out in every direction and none. It bent, looped, fluttered, whispered, and sighed.
Signs hung in the air:
“Exit Available If You Meant It.”
“Door May Lead to Door.”
“Congratulations. You’ve Already Left.”
“Stand Still to Proceed.”
Alice hesitated. “How do we know where to go?”
“You don’t,” said Harry cheerfully. “You just have to stop thinking in straight lines.”
“I never started,” Alice replied.
“Perfect,” said the hat. “Follow the logic that doesn’t follow.”
They passed an unhelpful map that read:
YOU ARE HERE.
ALSO NOT HERE.
THEN AGAIN, MAYBE NEAR.
A narrow hallway full of whispering potted plants muttered advice as they passed.
“Turn left unless you shouldn’t.”
“Don’t trust the wallpaper.”
“Ask the pigeon.”
Sure enough, a pigeon wearing a monocle sat on a signpost that was spinning slowly in place.
“Lost?” it asked.
“Possibly,” said Alice.
“Excellent,” said the pigeon. “You’re halfway there.”
“Halfway to where?”
“To wherever you are meant to have almost gone.”
The pigeon offered them a riddle in exchange for directions:
“I am never quite now,
I’m not quite then.
You chase me and miss me again and again.
I rhyme with tomorrow and borrow and lend—
What am I, my slightly befuddled friend?”
Alice thought carefully, then smiled.
“Later,” she said.
The pigeon beamed. “Correct. You may proceed sideways and a bit to the left.”
They stepped onto a floating staircase that rearranged itself mid-step and deposited them in front of a velvet curtain that was having a quiet sulk.
Behind it, a narrow archway shimmered with just enough possibility to be real.
“Here we are,” said Harry. “Beyond this is Somewherelse.”
The hat straightened into a proper crown, then shrank into a humble rain bonnet.
“I feel… interpretive,” it muttered.
Alice reached for the curtain.
It whispered, “Maybe.”
And then they stepped through.
Chapter Four: The Kingdom of Somewherelse (Probably)
The air shimmered as they stepped through the velvet curtain, and the world on the other side took its time assembling itself.
First came the smell of forgotten flowers and politely puzzled soup. Then came the sky, which was painted in uncertain shades of mauve and chartreuse, as if the sun had argued with the clouds and both had stormed off in a huff.
And then the land itself blinked awake.
They were standing on a path made entirely of suggestion. It rearranged itself each time they looked away, as if trying to remember what it was meant to be. There were trees that looked like opinions, hills shaped like half-remembered dreams, and a river flowing uphill in spirals.
A sign beside them read:
WELCOME TO SOMEWHERE ELSE
(Possibly)
Est. ???
Elevation: Debateable
Mood: Fluctuating
The hat adjusted itself into the shape of a very dramatic crown and announced, “At last! My kingdom! Or possibly someone else’s, but I do feel attached.”
Alice looked around. “It doesn’t feel very… established.”
“It wouldn’t,” said Harry. “This place is only remembered when people are uncertain. The more unsure they are, the more real it becomes.”
“Which explains the teetering lampposts and the floating goat,” said Alice, as a goat with butterfly wings drifted by humming a melancholy lullaby.
A procession of citizens approached: a clock-faced man in a waistcoat made of sighs, a pair of twins who changed colour depending on whether you looked at them directly, and a woman whose dress was made of sentences that had never been completed.
They bowed.
One of them, a tall fellow who might have been a former weather vane, cleared his throat.
“You have returned,” he said, glancing nervously at the hat. “At least, we think it is you. Unless it isn’t.”
“I think it might be me,” Alice offered.
The man bowed again. “Close enough. The throne awaits. Somewhere.”
“Do you have a map?” asked Harry.
“Several. None of them agree with each other.”
The hat shimmered with importance. “To the Court of Occasional Importance! At once!”
“Which direction is it?” asked Alice.
The citizens conferred. One pointed west. Another pointed up. The twins pointed at each other, then swapped arms.
Eventually, a pigeon-shaped shadow passed overhead and dropped a note.
Go sideways, then inward. Look for the hill that hums.
Alice and Harry set off, following the general feeling of possibility.
As they walked, the landscape continued to adjust to their conversation. When Alice asked about chairs, a field of thrones sprang up and curtseyed. When Harry mentioned cheese, a flock of brie birds took off with a flurry of buttery flaps.
They passed a signpost with only one arm. It pointed directly at Alice and read:
ALMOST THERE
(Depending on where you thought you were going)
The path led them to a hill that hummed a tune only slightly off-key. On top of it sat a teahouse with only three walls, and inside, a throne made entirely of interlocking puzzles.
“Well,” said Harry, “either we’re expected, or we’ve interrupted someone’s hobby.”
The throne pulsed with quiet anticipation. The hat trembled.
Alice stepped forward, then hesitated.
“Do I have to sit on it?”
The throne creaked. A voice from nowhere replied:
“Only if you wish to become uncertain in a very specific way.”
Alice looked at Harry.
Harry shrugged. “It’s your kingdom. Probably.”
Alice took a breath and sat.
The teahouse disappeared.
So did the hill.
And then the questions began.
Chapter Five: The Bureau of Misremembered Crowns
The moment Alice sat on the puzzle throne, everything changed again.
The teahouse vanished in a polite pop, the hill folded inwards with a thoughtful sigh, and she found herself seated in a gently creaking swivel chair in a room that smelled faintly of peppermint ink and overdue decisions.
Around her rose a vast, echoing chamber lined with filing cabinets stacked to the sky, all labeled in uncertain handwriting:
“Crowns That Turned Into Fish”
“Kings Who Forgot They Were Kings”
“Duchesses of Almost”
“Hat-Adjacent Incidents”
A faded placard swung gently from the ceiling:
The Bureau of Misremembered Crowns
Archiving royal errors since before the concept of monarchy became emotionally viable.
Alice turned slowly in her chair. Harry was perched on the edge of a desk behind her, sipping something labeled “Maybe-Tea.” The hat now resembled a feathered inkwell, muttering historical footnotes to itself.
“So,” said Alice, “I suppose this is part of being queen?”
“Not queen,” corrected a voice behind her. “Unqueen. There’s a difference.”
A figure emerged from behind a teetering stack of scrolls. She was wearing a crown that kept changing size and a robe made entirely of past declarations. She offered Alice a clipboard that tried to flee before being tackled by a passing paperweight.
“Welcome,” she said, “to the Archive of Unruled Realms. I’m the Registrar of Things We Thought Were Sorted.”
Harry gave her a small wave. “We’ve come about the hat.”
The Registrar squinted at the crown-shaped inkwell. “Ah yes. Former ceremonial tea warmer. Briefly declared emperor of cutlery. Dangerous when confident.”
The hat sniffed.
The Registrar gestured around the room. “Every time someone is almost crowned, nearly appointed, or definitely unsure whether they’re in charge, a file is created here. And your file, dear Alice, is… inconveniently blank.”
Alice blinked. “Blank?”
The Registrar nodded. “Absolutely. No entries, no decisions, no titles. You are officially undecided.”
“But I’ve sat on the throne,” said Alice. “Doesn’t that mean something?”
“Oh yes,” said the Registrar, scribbling a note that immediately turned into a cloud and floated away. “It means you’re about to be tested.”
“Tested how?”
A trapdoor in the floor opened with a dramatic sigh.
Through it rose a platform holding a three-headed mirror, a wobbly hourglass, and a plate of speculative biscuits.
“First,” said the Registrar, “you must face the Reflection of Possibly You. Then nibble a Decision Biscuit. Then pass the Interview of Unintentional Authority.”
The first mirror tilted toward Alice. Each head showed a different version of her: one wore a crown and scowled, one wore a jester’s cap and juggled pineapples, and the third looked like she had just woken up inside a teapot.
They all looked confused.
Alice frowned. “What if none of them are me?”
“Perfect,” said the Registrar. “That’s how you begin.”
The biscuits shifted into a neat stack. One read “Yes,” another read “No,” and the third said “What Was the Question?”
Alice took the third. It crumbled apologetically.
Then came the Interview. A swarm of parchment swirled into a vaguely human form, adjusted its invisible tie, and asked:
“Are you prepared to be responsible for things you can’t possibly understand?”
“I suppose I’ll have to be,” said Alice.
“Do you prefer certainty or clarity?”
“Neither,” she said. “I like truth that’s slightly suspicious.”
“Final question. Are you willing to lead by example, even if that example is mostly guesswork?”
Alice looked to Harry, who gave her a firm nod.
She turned back to the parchment cloud.
“Yes,” she said. “As long as I can ask questions along the way.”
The paper-person saluted. “Appointment provisional. Coronation undefined. Proceed to the Hall of Still-Developing Truths.”
The Registrar beamed. “You passed. Probably.”
The room began to dissolve like a politely melting jelly.
Harry offered her a hand. “Onward, Unqueen Alice.”
The hat snapped back onto her head in the shape of a laurel wreath made of question marks.
The world shifted again.
And the next door creaked open.
Chapter Six: The Hall of Still-Developing Truths
The door creaked open with the sound of someone clearing their throat mid-regret.
Alice stepped through first, followed by Harry, who was balancing a clipboard, a teacup, and a small portable uncertainty meter that kept blinking in spirals. The hat now looked like a candle that had read too much poetry and was prone to sighing.
They entered a grand hall — or at least, the idea of one. Columns shimmered in and out of view. The floor was polished suggestion. The ceiling fluttered uncertainly between stars and stained glass.
In the middle of the hall stood a great plinth, around which ideas circled lazily like moths at a philosophy lecture.
“Welcome,” said a voice from the plinth, “to the Hall of Still-Developing Truths.”
A creature rose into view. It looked vaguely like a librarian who had swallowed a constellation. Its robes flowed like questions. Its eyes were galaxies, one blinking slightly slower than the other.
“I am the Provisional Oracle,” it said. “I provide answers that might be true soon.”
Alice tilted her head. “What sort of answers?”
“Evolving ones,” said the Oracle. “Ask, and I shall tell you what your question is becoming.”
Harry raised a hand. “What’s the best way to find out the truth?”
The Oracle hummed. “By looking in the wrong place very carefully.”
“Sounds about right,” said Harry.
Alice stepped closer. “Am I really the Unqueen?”
The Oracle regarded her. “You are not now what you may never not have been. Which is close.”
Alice sat at the edge of the plinth and frowned. “But what am I meant to do?”
A ripple passed through the air. The columns blinked.
The Oracle replied, “You are meant to keep asking that.”
The hall darkened. Small lights flickered into view. They weren’t candles or lamps — they were floating truths, still wriggling into shape.
Some wore labels like:
“Maybe Probably Definitely Not”
“Unwritten But Implied”
“Historically Future”
The hat glowed faintly on Alice’s head. “The more questions you ask, the more this place grows.”
“So it’s made of wonder?”
Harry nodded. “And worry. And tea.”
The Oracle extended a translucent hand and offered Alice a key.
It was made of silence and looked like a music note unsure of its own melody.
“This will open the door you have not yet imagined,” said the Oracle. “You must take it with care and without expectation.”
Alice took the key.
It weighed nothing. But she could feel the space around it bending, as if her thoughts were already rearranging the world to make a lock.
“Where do I go now?” she asked.
The Oracle bowed. “Toward the unfinished. Through the Gallery of Unpainted Paintings. Over the Bridge of Broken Similes. And finally, to the Chamber of Repeated Endings.”
Harry tucked the uncertainty meter away. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”
They turned to leave. The hall fluttered gently behind them, already forgetting their visit.
As they stepped into the next corridor, the Oracle’s voice echoed softly:“The truth is not a thing you find. It is a place you help become.”
Chapter Seven: The Gallery of Unpainted Paintings
The corridor beyond the Oracle curved like a question mark that had forgotten how to end. It led Alice and Harry through a sequence of gently humming arches into a strange, luminous chamber where paintings hung—not on walls—but in mid-air, slowly rotating like daydreams.
Each painting was unfinished. Some showed only faint pencil outlines, others splashes of wild colour trapped mid-gesture. A few shimmered as if they were still deciding what to become.
The gallery smelled of turpentine and memory.
A sign floated at eye-level:
THE GALLERY OF UNPAINTED PAINTINGS
“All the moments not yet imagined.”
The hat adjusted itself into the shape of a beret and muttered, “Ah, the fine arts. A land of exquisite uncertainty.”
Alice turned to Harry. “Why are they unpainted?”
“Because they’re waiting for the right watcher,” said Harry, tapping the side of her glasses. “These paintings don’t show what’s been. They show what might be. But only if you’re unsure enough.”
Alice stepped up to one of the frames. At first it was blank. Then, very faintly, an image began to emerge — a forest of umbrellas growing from the ground, each open and quivering in the breeze.
“That’s… strange,” she whispered.
“It’s one possible outcome,” said a voice behind them.
The Gallery Curator floated forward. She was translucent, wearing a gown stitched from unfinished thoughts, and carried a palette of invisible hues. Her brush danced across the air like a conductor’s baton. The paintings twitched as she passed.
“I am Madame Perhaps,” she said with a graceful nod. “You are expected.”
Alice tilted her head. “You knew we were coming?”
“I suspected,” said Madame Perhaps. “And suspicion is often the first stroke of a masterpiece.”
Harry examined a painting that showed Alice wearing a hat made entirely of tangled railway tickets. “What’s the purpose of all this?”
“To reveal the choices not yet chosen,” said Madame Perhaps. “And to offer guidance, if you trust your confusion.”
She gestured toward a particularly stubborn canvas that refused to show anything at all.
“This one,” she said, “is yours, Unqueen.”
Alice stepped closer.
The painting shimmered — faint shapes began to form. A throne made of driftwood and tea tins. A court of beasts with unreadable eyes. A small door labeled “Later.” And Alice herself — older, bolder, and holding the same shimmering key she’d received from the Oracle.
But in the image, the key was opening not a door, but someone else’s heart.
Alice blinked.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
Madame Perhaps smiled. “It means your next step may not be yours alone.”
As the room darkened slightly, a bell rang somewhere far above.
Madame Perhaps bowed. “Your time here is almost over. The Bridge of Broken Similes awaits.”
Harry straightened her scarf. “Is that the one that feels like… like something, but you’re never quite sure what?”
“Exactly,” said Madame Perhaps.
They began to leave, but Alice paused and looked back at the unpainted painting.
A single brushstroke appeared on it — one she hadn’t made.
But it was her colour.
And it was smiling.
Chapter Eight: The Bridge of Broken Similes
The corridor from the gallery led down a long, creaky ramp made of almost-sound, where the walls whispered comparisons that didn’t quite land.
“She was like a memory trying to remember itself.”
“He ran like a question mark on stilts.”
“It was as deep as… um… deeper than… never mind.”
The ramp ended at the foot of a vast bridge — or what remained of one. Planks were missing. Ropes frayed into metaphors. The handrails trembled whenever anyone looked too directly at them.
A sign at the entrance said:
THE BRIDGE OF BROKEN SIMILES
Cross only when confused.
“Well,” said Harry, peering into the fog that swirled beneath the bridge, “this looks structurally metaphorical.”
The hat flopped sideways and whispered, “Do not try to understand it. That’s where it gets slippery.”
Alice stepped onto the first plank, which groaned like an overdue apology.
Immediately, the bridge responded.
A faint voice emerged from the air:
“She walks like a… well, you know, a sort of curious thing that… it’s hard to explain.”
With every step, more fractured similes emerged, trailing behind them like overcooked spaghetti.
“He held her gaze like someone trying to juggle a goose and a philosophy degree.”
“The fog hung like… what fog hangs like when it’s feeling particularly theatrical.”
“Her resolve cracked like… toast. But the dense kind.”
Harry turned. “Are we meant to fix these, or just suffer through them?”
“Neither,” said Alice. “We’re meant to accept them as they are.”
As she said it, one of the ropes straightened slightly.
The bridge responded well to honesty.
Halfway across, the mist thickened and a creature stepped out — a wobbly figure made entirely of similes gone sideways. It had a spoon for a hand, a cape made of ellipses, and it jingled when it forgot what it was trying to say.
“Who dares cross the bridge of comparisons that forgot their endings?” it boomed, though somewhat apologetically.
“I’m Alice,” said Alice. “And I don’t mind if things don’t quite make sense.”
The creature blinked. “Oh. Well then. Carry on.”
It stepped aside and offered them a biscuit that tasted like déjà vu.
As they reached the final planks, the bridge let out a weary sigh.
“She left the bridge like a book half-read but deeply loved.”
On the other side, the mist cleared. A staircase of stone thoughts wound upward, each step engraved with a phrase:
“Still wondering.”
“Might be right.”
“Nearly true.”
At the top stood a peculiar door. It had three locks and no handle, and yet it was ever-so-slightly ajar.
Alice turned to Harry.
“Ready for whatever comes next?”
Harry nodded. “So long as it’s not perfectly reasonable.”
They pushed the door open.
And the world blinked.
Chapter Nine: The Chamber of Repeated Endings
The door creaked open into a room that felt like a memory folding in on itself.
It was circular, vast, and draped in thick velvet curtains that shimmered with unfinished goodbyes. Suspended from the ceiling were dozens of hourglasses, each one turning slowly, then reversing, then stopping altogether—as if time itself couldn’t make up its mind.
A gentle hum filled the air. It was the sound of almost-conclusions.
Alice and Harry stepped inside.
The floor was mirrored, but the reflections did not match them. Instead, Alice saw herself older, wiser, still wearing the hat—but now it shimmered like a question no longer afraid of its own answer. In another reflection, Harry was leading a parliament of bickering cats with extraordinary hats of their own.
“They’re not us,” Alice said.
“Not quite,” Harry agreed. “But they could be, maybe.”
From the centre of the chamber rose a spiral staircase leading nowhere.
At the top stood someone who looked very much like Alice—but not exactly.
Her hair was braided differently. Her stance was taller. In her hand was the key, still glowing faintly.
The hat on her head was quiet and calm.
“You’re me,” Alice whispered.
“Not quite,” said the other. “I’m the version of you who made a few more choices. And a few more mistakes. And asked even harder questions.”
Alice approached slowly.
“Is this where I become you?”
The other Alice smiled gently. “No. This is where you decide whether you’d like to. Or whether you’d rather become someone I never was.”
Harry crossed her arms. “Seems a bit circular.”
“It is,” said the chamber. The room itself had spoken, with the sigh of hundreds of endings looping back to their beginnings.
The mirrored floor showed Alice stepping forward.
The hat flickered through its many shapes—crown, bonnet, jester’s cap, candle, feather—before finally settling into something simple. A small, sensible bowler, slightly tilted.
“I don’t think I need a title,” said Alice.
“I agree,” said Harry. “You’ve already got a name.”
The other Alice smiled. “That’s always the beginning of the next ending.”
Then she faded, not into nothing—but into memory.
The hourglasses all flipped at once.
The velvet curtains rippled, and behind them stood all the strange companions from their journey: Madame Perhaps with her swirling brush, the Provisional Oracle blinking galaxies, the pigeon with a monocle, the blob of Maybe wobbling politely. Even the broken simile-keeper gave a nod.
Each bowed to Alice. And to Harry. And to the hat, which now gave a quiet curtsey of its own.
Alice turned to her friend.
“Shall we go home?”
Harry grinned. “Eventually.”
They walked hand in hand across the mirrored floor, which turned, gently, into a pond.
And as they stepped into the reflection, the room blinked—
—then paused—
—and waited to be remembered again.
Epilogue: A Box Returned, a Teacup Full
Back in her quiet kitchen, Alice stirred her tea without thinking.
The sky outside was politely overcast. The clock ticked as if nothing peculiar had happened. The table no longer held any revolutionary aspirations, and the hat now rested peacefully on the coat rack, shaped like a very well-behaved lampshade.
Harry was seated upside-down in the armchair, reading a book that didn’t have a title but hummed when she turned the pages.
The box—the very one that had arrived unannounced—was back on the doorstep.
This time it was taped shut, stamped, scribbled upon, and covered in notes:
RETURNED TO POSSIBILITY
DELIVERED TO MAYBE
OPEN ONLY IF YOU MEAN IT
DO NOT BEND REALITY WITHOUT A NOTE FROM A RESPONSIBLE ADULT
Alice peered at it through the window. “Do we open it again?”
Harry shook her head. “Not today. Best to let some stories close themselves.”
Alice nodded. She poured another cup of tea.
The hat gave a sleepy rustle.
“I still don’t know what I am,” she said.
“You’re Alice,” Harry replied. “The sort of person things happen to because you wonder what would happen if they did.”
That seemed enough.
Outside, the world continued to spin exactly as it always had, except for the small ways it didn’t. Somewhere, a mirror remembered them. Somewhere else, a kingdom of forgotten things wondered if it was still real.
And in a drawer that was never meant to open, the key rested quietly.
Waiting.
Just in case.
The end.
A Hatful of Maybes
When morning returned and the teacups were full,
And the world had gone back to its sensible lull,
A girl with a past made of questions and keys
Sat dreaming of stairways that bent in the breeze.
Her hat had grown quiet (but still liked to hum),
And her friend, the girl wizard, was nibbling a crumb.
Their adventure, though done, had not quite stopped spinning—
For nonsense, you see, has a habit of winning.
They’d crossed crooked bridges, met creatures that blinked,
Been offered a truth that refused to be inked.
They’d painted with questions, danced through a door,
And left half a dozen endings on the floor.
The crown she refused was returned with a grin,
For not every story needs one to begin.
And though answers were fickle and riddles ran deep,
Some truths only visit when you’re half-asleep.
So remember this tale when your kettle runs dry,
Or the moon starts to wobble up high in the sky.
Keep your hat full of purpose (or possibly jam),
And be just uncertain enough to say, “I am.”
Because sometimes a story that loops and confounds
Is the sort where the wonder outweighs all the bounds.
And the best sort of question—the one most profound—
Is the one that keeps gently not tying you down.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 