Chapter 15 : Moon Rabbit (5)

Kang Haerin chewed on her pen, lost in thought. She tapped the circled name “Lee Haram” in her notebook.

‘Where did this girl come from?’

Lee Haram’s acting had a captivating quality, a certain magnetism that drew people in. It was difficult to describe, but it was undeniably a form of talent.

During her time at the Metropolitan Theatre, Haerin had encountered similar talents, actors who naturally commanded attention. Most of them achieved a high level of success.

Having competed with such talents, Haerin would have normally dismissed Haram as just another promising student, despite her talent.

But there was something different about Lee Haram.

Her acting, while captivating, was also… unrefined. Raw. Unpolished. Yet, it held a strange power that kept people’s eyes glued to her.

A skill that seasoned actors spent years honing, this ordinary high school student possessed naturally. This dissonance intrigued Haerin.

Usually, there were two possibilities in such cases:

Either the student possessed overwhelming talent that flowed effortlessly, or they were deliberately holding back due to their own artistic choices.

Or perhaps it was both.

Haerin wanted to know.
She wanted to see what this unusual student was hiding.

That’s why she had offered her the deal, the chance to become a “ghost of Daehangno.” She had taken on the role of Mephistopheles.

But Haram had refused. Most people would have been swayed by such an offer, but Lee Haram lacked the typical impulsiveness of her age. Haerin even felt like *she* was the one being led during their conversations.

And then, the day after being rejected, Haram returned and made a counter-offer.

She asked Haerin to schedule her and Hansongi’s auditions last. In exchange, she would accept the previous offer. Haerin didn’t know her intentions but agreed. She wasn’t a saint; favoring someone based on mutual benefit was common practice.

***

I entered the multipurpose room and greeted the instructor. Kang Haerin nodded in acknowledgment, then, looking at our faces, chuckled.

“Just the two aces left. You’re both prepared, right?”
“Yes!”
“Hansongi, you’re first. Which scene did you prepare?”
“Act 3, Scene 12.”

The instructor flipped through the script and nodded.

“The scene where the Moon Rabbit confesses to Kim Jinsol and returns to the moon. That’s an important scene. I’ll give you the other lines, so start whenever you’re ready.”

Hansongi took a deep breath, composed herself, and began.

“I’m sorry for deceiving you. I’m… not the person you loved.”

Her performance reflected her hard work. Her voice trembled like a lovesick girl, her gaze lowered demurely. She had completely embodied the character.

“What are you talking about?”

The instructor delivered Kim Jinsol’s line.

“I heard your wish from the moon. I thought it would be simple. I could just transform into her and fill the void you felt.”

Hansongi clasped her hands together, her gaze wandering.

“Yerin, don’t say silly things like that, let’s go home.”
“In a way, I was turning a blind eye. I didn’t know how much pain I was causing.”

Emotions poured from her. The rabbit’s regret was palpable.
Hansongi’s performance built towards its climax.

“I must have been… possessed or something at that moment.”
“…What can I do to make you feel better?”
“Then… this is a selfish request, but… will you please remember me?”

Hansongi’s expression was filled with sorrow, on the verge of tears. She clasped her hands behind her back and turned away.

The Moon Rabbit, having said her goodbyes to Kim Jinsol, was returning to the moon.

“That’s all.”

The instructor applauded.

“You’ve improved a lot, Songi.”
“Thank you.”

The instructor jotted something down in her notebook and asked,

“Could you explain your interpretation of that scene?”
“I focused on the emotional connection between the Moon Rabbit and Kim Jinsol. Act 2 has a lot of scenes where they grow closer. So, it’s natural for them to fall in love, right? The ending of Act 3, in my interpretation, is a bittersweet love story between an innocent girl and a heartbroken man.”
“Not bad.”

Kang Haerin scribbled something in her notebook and concluded her evaluation.
Then, she turned to me.

“Haram, feeling the pressure now?”
“A little. Senior Songi’s performance was really good.”
“Is that so? I think it’s the other way around.”
“Haha.”
“So, Haram, which scene did you prepare?”

My answer had been decided from the beginning.
I smirked.

“Act 3, Scene 12.”

***

Even after the string of tragedies and the departure of everyone I cared about, I continued to hold onto a small dream.
Or perhaps, it was merely a preserved fragment of happier times, a dream too small to ever truly take flight.

Birds of a feather flock together.
I became friends with Han Dojun because we shared the same aspirations.

Yes, back then, I dreamt of becoming an actor. I spent time with Dojun in the theater district, nurturing that fragile dream.

But at some point, I realized my wings were broken. I couldn’t even feel them anymore, as if they had never existed.

A voice kept whispering, ‘Wouldn’t it be better to just tear off wings that can’t fly?’

I shook my head vehemently, refusing to let go. I clung to the remnants of my dream, knowing it would be crushed the moment I let go.

I went to work, I worked, I came home. The cycle repeated endlessly, consuming me. After each tedious day, I would stand before the mirror, engaging in meaningless rituals.

I recited lines I had practiced as a child, striking dramatic poses, practicing elaborate bows. I performed for an empty audience on a stage as small as my dream.

The boy I once shared my dreams with had become a magnificent hawk, soaring through the world.
I found solace in that fact.

My dream, too, could have taken flight. I, too, could have soared. That was all that mattered.

I took a slow, deep breath.
I didn’t need the raw, unpolished emotion I displayed at the initiation ceremony. I would channel the skills I had honed in my solitary performances before the mirror.

“I’m sorry for deceiving you. I’m not the person you loved.”

Unlike Hansongi, I didn’t play the lovesick girl. A simple, bittersweet melancholy filled the room. The Moon Rabbit looked directly at Kim Jinsol.

“What are you talking about?”

The instructor delivered the line, just like she had with Hansongi.
But the result was completely different.

“I heard your wish from the moon. I thought it would be simple. I could transform into her and fill the void you felt.”

I clasped my hands behind my back, leaned forward slightly, and fixed my gaze on Kim Jinsol. The Moon Rabbit’s words, delivered in my voice, sounded almost cold.

“Yerin, stop it. Let’s go home.”

Kang Haerin continued to feed me the lines.
I sighed, smiled faintly, and slowly turned my head, as if observing the surrounding scenery.

“In a way, I was turning a blind eye. I didn’t realize how much pain I was causing.”

I closed my eyes.
I severed something precious within me.
I suppressed the sudden surge of sadness and spoke,

“…I must have been… out of my mind, as if I was possessed by something.”
“What can I do to make you feel better?”

My expression became blank.
I hesitated, my lips trembling, then I smiled.

“Then… this is a very selfish request, but…”

I forced down the dark emotions rising within me, my jaw trembling. I struggled to breathe, maintaining the facade of a smile.

“…Will you please remember me, keep me in your memories?”

A single tear rolled down my cheek.

“I’m done.”

I swallowed my emotions again and forced a smile, wiping the tear with a handkerchief from my pocket.

Both Songi and the instructor were wearing grim expressions.
Kang Haerin, after a moment of stunned silence, finally spoke.

“It’s the same scene, but your interpretation is completely different. Can you explain your approach?”

I responded to her question with another question.

“Instructor, when do you think we become adults?”
“When we’re legally of age?”
“But there are… immature adults, and there are old souls. So, being an adult isn’t just about age, is it?”

The instructor nodded, encouraging me to continue.

“When we turn eighteen, everyone says, ‘You’re an adult now, so act like one.’ Isn’t that funny? Just because a number changes, someone who was a child yesterday is suddenly expected to be an adult today.”

I swallowed and continued,

“What’s even funnier is that people actually *become* adults. It means the biggest influence on our transformation comes from others.”
“Interesting perspective. Go on.”
“I interpreted ‘The Wish-Granting Moon Rabbit’ as the story of a child becoming an adult.”

I closed my eyes, immersing myself in the role of the Moon Rabbit.

“The Moon Rabbit lives alone on the moon. She has no one to talk to. She’s lonely. Her only connection to others is through the wishes they make. That’s why she doesn’t fully grant their wishes. She’s afraid they won’t need her anymore if their wishes come true.”

In Act 2, the Moon Rabbit descends to the village and confronts the consequences of her actions, the suffering she has caused.

“The villagers, through their suffering, force her to take responsibility. They force her to grow up. The only one who doesn’t demand this of her is Kim Jinsol.”

Kang Haerin frowned.

“Only Kim Jinsol?”
“Yes. Do you really think he believed the Moon Rabbit was his deceased lover? A woman he loved so deeply? Perhaps he was just pretending, to spare her feelings.”
“That’s an interesting interpretation.”
“Or maybe not.”

I smiled brightly.

“In Act 3, doesn’t the Moon Rabbit realize that Kim Jinsol knows the truth? She realizes he’s been protecting her. And that’s when she decides to take responsibility. To become an adult. But in becoming an adult, she becomes lonely again. That’s my interpretation.”

The instructor pressed a hand to her forehead, sighed deeply, and then asked,

“Are all high school students like this these days?”
“Well, I *am* a high school student.”
“You’re living your second life, aren’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“Never mind. You’re dismissed.”

I bowed and left the room. Hansongi was waiting outside, a contemplative expression on her face.