The Rabbit and The Game

(As remembered by those who stayed wild)

There was once a rabbit who walked a path that should not have been there.

It was too straight. Too quiet. Worn down in a way that no animal would make by choice.

Still, the rabbit walked. Because sometimes the only way forward is forward.

Ahead, the trees opened into a clearing.

And in that clearing was a board.

It had no colour. No names. Just grooves. Deep enough that the rabbit nearly stumbled.

And waiting at the edge — the wolf.

Not foaming. Not barking. Just waiting.

“You’ve arrived,” said the wolf.

“I was walking,” said the rabbit.

“Same thing,” said the wolf. “Now we play.”

The rabbit looked down.

“What’s the game?”

“You run. I chase. If I catch you, I take what you have. If I don’t, we start again.”

“And the pieces?”

“You buy them,” said the wolf, gesturing. “From me.”

The rabbit saw them stacked neatly: carved tokens, marked in bone.

He reached for one. It hummed like regret.

“If I buy them, do they follow my hand?”

“No,” said the wolf. “They follow the rules.”

“Your rules?”

“The rules,” said the wolf. “I just remember them best.”

The rabbit paid. Because there was no door. Because the clearing does not let you leave.

The game began.

The rabbit moved with precision. He watched the pieces. Played fair. Played careful.

The wolf didn’t.

Sometimes he moved twice. Sometimes he moved without moving at all.

And still said: “That’s the rule.”

The rabbit tried to win. He tried harder.

He lost.

Every time.

And the more he played, the more he noticed — the board never changed. Only the rabbit did.

He lost pieces. Then time. Then name.

And the wolf? He looked older. But never emptier.

Then one turn, the rabbit stopped.

Not because he gave up — but because he finally saw.

“This isn’t a game,” he said.

“It is,” said the wolf. “It must be.”

“No,” said the rabbit. “It’s only a game because I agreed to play.”

“There’s no other path,” said the wolf.

“There was never a path,” said the rabbit. “Only a clearing. And a script.”

He set the pieces down.

Didn’t break them. Didn’t run.

Just stepped off the board.

The wolf watched.

Waited.

The game didn’t reset.

The board didn’t vanish.

But the rules — thinned.

And the rabbit walked back into the woods.

Not free. But no longer fooled.

They say if you listen long enough, you can hear the board whispering.

It’s always looking for another walker.

But you don’t have to play.

Even if you already paid.

Even if they tell you you must.

Even if the wolf forgets he’s playing too.

See it for what it is.

And step away.