Tea for One, Said the White Rabbit

A lone figure in a blue coat sits beneath an arch of blooming roses, the twisted branches framing a ritual of stillness. His red bow tie is crisp, his posture precise, yet the teacup trembles slightly in his paw. Time does not tick here—it blooms. The rabbit, once hurried, now waits in silence, surrounded by porcelain and petals. The garden listens. The ceremony unfolds without guests, without clocks, without answers. Only the scent of roses and the weight of memory remain.