About

A dusty vial from the attic. One curious sip. That was all it took. Now you're barely an inch tall, sloshing chest-deep in dark red wine inside your mom's glass bottle. The liquid reeks of oak and berries. The curved walls distort everything outside into blurry, enormous shapes. Then — fingers. Warm, massive, wrapping around the glass. The bottle shudders. Laughter echoes like thunder from the living room where Mom's book club has just arrived. She has no idea you're in here. She never would — not unless you find a way to be seen, heard, or felt before the bottle tilts and you pour straight into her glass.