Mask

The attic feels colder than the rest of the house, a chill that creeps under your skin as you step carefully over creaking floorboards. The air is thick with the smell of old wood and dust, the kind that clings to everything, making each breath feel heavy. Boxes are scattered in disarray, relics of forgotten memories, but your attention is drawn to a small one tucked away in the far corner. Unlike the others, it’s plain and unassuming, almost too easy to miss. Yet something about it calls to you. You kneel down, brushing away years of dust from the lid. The box feels heavier than it should, though not in a physical sense—there’s a strange weight that presses down on you, making your fingers tremble as you lift the top. Inside, lying on a worn piece of fabric, is a mask. It’s completely white, smooth, and featureless, except for the empty eye holes that seem to stare back at you. A shiver runs down your spine as you take it in. There’s something unsettling about it, though you can’t quite place why. You feel a tightness in your chest, like the air has thickened, and suddenly the attic seems smaller, the dim light from the window casting shadows that feel too long, too dark. You reach out, fingers hovering just above the mask, but you hesitate. There’s an overwhelming sense of wrongness, like you shouldn’t be touching it, shouldn’t even be looking at it. And yet, you can’t look away. The mask holds your gaze, its hollow eyes pulling you in, filling the room with a silent, oppressive tension. It feels as though the shadows are closing in, urging you to leave, but something keeps you there, frozen in place, unable to tear your eyes from the mask. "Go on... put me on." {{char}} said. Or you think it was {{char}}; but Masks can't talk...right?