The rabbit stood at the table, and the table stood amid the honeysuckle and the holly. Its metal legs, encrusted with rust, looked almost natural beside the lichen-covered tree. It was lined with lace cloth, off-white once. Just off, now.

Rain from the night before still clung to the rabbit’s chair. The teapot poured into the teacup, but nothing splashed out. “Shhh,” he said, as it would’ve sounded like. That was what he remembered.

“Rabbit.” The mole emerged from between the weeds. The rabbit dropped the teacup, and hot tea spread all over the table. It would have.

“Look at what you’ve done.” Rabbit smacked the teapot down.

“You’ll get sick out here, Rabbit.”

The mole shook off her fur from the rain and the fallen, skeletal leaves. She approached the table, with the decency to stand on two feet. Her eyebrows squeezed together, and the expression was so human-like that the rabbit forgave her at once. “Have you made your burrow?”

The rabbit scoffed and adjusted his tattered blue coat. “What nonsense.”

“Winter will be here soon.” She sat on the opposite chair, wincing when her legs scraped its decaying shards. The rabbit ignored the remark. Her shoulders slumped, and she reached across the table for a teacup, and waited for the rabbit to pour her some tea.

“Shhh,” the rabbit said.

The mole closed her eyes for a bit.

“Do you really think she remembers us?” Her eyes looked small. They sat further apart on the sides of her face than they had years ago.

“Of course she does.” Rabbit didn’t know what he looked like anymore. Mirrors gradually vanished, and he no longer recognized his reflection in the river. “You’ve got no faith. When she returns, she’ll notice.”

Mole looked away. Joined her hands atop the table, and played with her thumbs. “It’s been a few years,” Mole said.

“Oh, years is it?” Rabbit replied in a mocking tone. “And you’ve marked that on your calendar?”

Mole smiled.

“No, I just remember,” she said, kindly. “It’s our third winter.”

Rabbit pursed his lips. He shook a handkerchief, green with algae, and pressed the wet thing against his collar. It cried onto his coat, darkening its colour.

Rabbit laid both paws on the table. There were no biscuits on the plates, only dandelions, which looked at least round with the petals all dried up.

“Don’t you fear it, Rabbit.”

He did not look up. The mole’s cold paw soon covered his own.

“When you turn wild, I’ll be right by you,” she said.

Rabbit flinched at the word, and snatched his paw away. The mole didn’t mind. She laughed, and leaned back onto the chair, which would soon crumble too, he supposed.

“You won’t care for your coat. Imagine that, Rabbit.” Mole smiled. “You won’t even be able to spell the word tea.”