MASQUERADE
using AI
Talem was someone who had once forgotten his own name. He lived in a city where names could be changed as easily as shoes: one in the morning, another in the evening, a third in dreams. The city had no name, or rather, it had all of them at once.
One evening, when the shadows from the streetlights grew thicker than the lamp posts themselves, Talem found a letter at his doorstep. The envelope was black as the ash of a burned book and warm to the touch, as if it had only just been held. Inside was a card, inscribed with silver writing:
INVITATION TO THE GREAT MASQUERADE
Location: The Hall Between Times
Time: When the clocks stop
Bring your mask with you. Or let it find you.
He didn’t remember agreeing to anything, but he was already on his way.
The Hall Between Times was a glass palace, standing in a place where the city ceased to be real. The walls reflected not faces, but possibilities: you could see who you might have become if you had chosen differently. Or whom you had lost by choosing as you did.
Talem was not alone. He found himself among the guests, each wearing a mask — strange, alive, breathing. Some wore the faces of lion-headed beasts, others had the likeness of hawks, some bore golden tridents, while others had six eyes. The masks moved, shifted, as if they were worn not by humans, but by beings with their own life.
Talem wore a blank mask — smooth, like a mirror’s surface. He had received it from a random street vendor as he passed by. The man had said:
— Here, this is it. Without this, you won’t get in.
He felt like an outsider, as if he were a mere shadow against these vivid faces. But that was the point.
He met three of them.
First was Horus, the Egyptian god of the sky. His mask was made of pure gold, with falcon eyes that blazed like the sun. He stood by the window, watching the clouds slowly move, not in a hurry.
— I lost my father’s throne, — he said. — And now I know: the truth cannot be found when it disappears with every glance.
Talem said nothing.
Next was Kali, the destroyer of illusions. Her mask was made from a tangle of skulls and serpents, and she seemed both wild and merciless. Her hands were many, each holding a lotus, a sword, or a bone.
— I do not kill bodies, — she said. — I destroy lies. I become what your soul hides. Look at me, and you will see what you hide. Put on my mask — and you will see what remains of you.
Then came Odin, the god of wisdom and war, his mask made of horns and raven feathers. His gaze was penetrating, as if he knew what would happen to everyone in this hall a thousand years from now.
— I gave up sight for wisdom, — he spoke. — But now I don’t know what to do with it. No matter how much you know, the answer is always hidden in another question. Are you ready to find that question?
But Talem did not take any of their masks. He simply remained silent, listening to their words, which seemed to grow emptier with each passing moment.
The next gods approached.
On the balcony, far from the rest, stood Tlaloc, the Aztec god of rain, wearing a mask of jade. He laughed, but his laugh sounded like a storm, a prelude to disaster. His fingers slid through a bowl filled with water.
— People call me good when they desire rain. And evil when I bring floods. Are you ready to be the one who no one understands? The one who is both condemned and exalted at the same time?
Then in a corner appeared Ereshkigal, the Sumerian goddess of the underworld. Her mask was made of burnt clay, with eyes that seemed to peer into eternity.
— I was once the sister of the sky, — she whispered. — Now I lie beneath the earth. Are you ready to consume darkness? To be the one who never sees the light?
But even she did not tempt Talem to wear her image. Instead, he approached one corner of the hall, where stood the Nameless — a god whose name had never been known. His mask had no eye sockets, and his face was just a dark void.
— Who are you? — asked Talem.
— I was a god, but I was forgotten. My name no longer echoes in prayers, but perhaps you know me. I am the one who is never remembered but always present. I am the future of all gods, even if no one remembers us.
Talem was silent once again.
At midnight, when all the clocks in the Hall Between Times stopped, the Exchange began — an ancient ritual in which the gods could leave their masks. And the mortals could take them, to become what they were not.
Talem felt the weight of many hands before him, each holding a mask, each offering a promise.
— You are empty, — said Kali, extending her mask. — But this emptiness can be anything. Fill it with me, and you will become the one who destroys illusions.
— Or become mine, — said Odin, holding out his mask, full of wisdom and loss. — Become the one who sees, but cannot close his eyes.
— Are you ready to be the one who gives everything and takes everything away? — asked Tlaloc, his mask flashing like rain in the light.
Talem stood in the center of the hall, feeling their eyes on him, the weight of these possibilities. But he did not move. He simply looked at them.
— All of you fear emptiness, — he said softly. — But I do not fear it. I do not want to be someone I do not know. I do not want to wear a mask. I am a human. And I choose to be empty, but real.
He took off his blank mask and placed it on the floor.
A silence settled over the hall, like a cloud that absorbs the light. The gods were silent. They did not speak, but there was something new in their eyes. Fear. Respect. Understanding.
Talem turned and left. Behind him, the gods remained, once again locked in their masks, which now seemed not alive, but simply dust in the air.
When he stepped outside, the morning was already knocking at the city windows. He walked, and the world seemed the same. But Talem knew: now, he was just a human. And that was enough.
