He walked home. The city was asleep. The windows were all dark. But now he knew: behind every dark window, someone else was also just returning, also feeling the phantom weight of a second mask they'd only just learned to see.
The Second Mask
"I knew you were hungry."
The invitation had arrived three days ago — no return address, just a crimson wax seal he'd broken with his thumb. You are invited to see clearly. eye wide shut
The ballroom was a drowned cathedral. Chandeliers hung like frozen chandeliers of ice. Every guest wore a mask — some ornate, some plain, all covering the upper face. Women in gowns that whispered of another century. Men in tailcoats or uniform jackets. No one spoke above a murmur. He walked home
Inside, the air was thick with incense and something older — beeswax, velvet, the ghost of perfume. A corridor led him past mirrors draped in black cloth. He caught his own reflection in a gap: still himself, but already less. But now he knew: behind every dark window,
He recognized no one. That was the point.