Dear Mr. Book
I had a place to be.
"Hey, Boss Bbit. Why the slow pace today?"
It was Mr. Book. He was sprawled out on his back, soaking up the searing white sunlight with every inch of his exposed belly. He called out to me as I tried to brush past.
Mr. Book was, well, a turtle. He was named after the second syllable of 'Geo-Buk', the Korean word for his kind, but he always went by the English 'Book.' He was the only one who called me 'Boss Bbit'—a nickname he coined from 'Rabbit.'
But what was my reality? I was a far cry from a "Boss" who could flip through folders and bark "Rejected!" with style. Instead, I was just a lowly deputy clerk, constantly flinching under Manager Big-Cat’s explosive temper. The manager’s roar felt like sharp fangs, the kind that could crush your spine in a single bite. Perhaps it was the sheer terror, but the fur on my rump had already begun to fall out in patches—stress-induced alopecia, a sorry sight for any rabbit.
Part of it was my own fault; my imagination was far too vivid for my own good. But in front of Mr. Book, even I felt like a leisurely boss, sitting with my scrawny, balding backside tucked into the grass, basking in the sun. If nothing else, the grass was good for hiding those patches of missing fur.
Perhaps he was trying to live up to his name, for Mr. Book was never without a book. He read everything: thrillers, romances, even comic books. But now, a few steps behind where he lay sprawled, a single book lay discarded on the grass as if it had been tossed away. It was quite unlike him—contrary to his usual patient nature—but perhaps he had grown bored of it after flipping through only a few pages. On top of those open white pages lay a layer of soil, ground as fine as powder, as if it had been meticulously crushed in a mortar.
"Might even be slower than me at this rate!"
Mr. Book erupted into a boisterous puh-hah! of a laugh. His shell rocked back and forth in rhythm with his laughter, making him look as innocent as a child on a swing.
"The day I'm slower than you will be the day I have my legs in casts," I snapped back. I had stopped, which was unlike me.
The truth was, I wanted to be late to that 'place.' Usually, I would have found his prying annoying, but today, it was a relief. Please, keep talking to me. Don't stop.
"We can't have those long, pretty legs in casts, now can we?" Mr. Book nodded, as if agreeing with my retort.
He was still lying down, craning his neck just to look at me. Doesn't that hurt? At least sit up properly so we can talk.
"Now that I think about it, you always did envy my legs," I said.
"It's not just your legs, Boss Bbit," Mr. Book continued, his voice warm with a mix of admiration and mischief.
"Think of those long, elegant ears of yours, reaching high just like your legs. Or those six silver whiskers that gleam so sharply. And that dainty little nose, like a perfect upside-down triangle. But most of all, I’ve always envied your very build—a body crafted for pure speed. Though, at this moment, you don’t look all that different from me, do you?"
"…Being fast isn't always a good thing."
I actually liked how slow you were.
Mr. Book seemed to have watched me closely over the years. Of course he had; we had known each other for a lifetime. I remember it clearly: back when 'Fairy Tale Creek' was still just a small mountain, I was staring at my reflection in a moonlit spring. I had forgotten I’d come there to wash my face and ended up just gulping down water, only to run into Mr. Book, who was busy 'photosynthesizing' even under the moon.
He was floating lazily on the surface of the spring. He looked so peaceful, so carefree—I was envious. I spent my life running until my paws were sweaty, escaping from Manager Big-Cat and my mentor, Senior Moon-Bear. I had never known what it was like to just stay still in one place.
I suppose it was a habit of mine. Because I knew all too well how fast I was, my first instinct was always to bolt before anything else.
"Why? They say everything has its downsides, but still," he said, looking at me with genuine curiosity. I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth.
"I still envy you. I think you're blessed just for being who you are."
Those were the warm words Mr. Book had once given me. If it's him, he probably already knows what I’m trying to say now.
"You're so much slower than me."
In all of 'Fairy Tale Creek', you are surely the slowest of all.
"So why did you go first? Leaving me behind."
Hop. Hop.
Forcing my heavy paws to lift from the fine soil—a ground they had no desire to leave—I began to run at a pace slower than any other rabbit in 'Fairy Tale Creek'. For today, I had to be a rabbit slower than a turtle.
That was the only way I knew to honor Mr. Book, who so loved his photosynthesis, and to keep his memory alive for just a little while longer.
