In a bustling city cloaked in the golden haze of perpetual dusk, whispers of a strange figure circulated. Known only as the Mask Collector, the mysterious individual roamed the shadowy corners of the city, offering deals to those desperate enough to barter. They traded not in gold, nor in gems, but in faces—crafted masks imbued with untold power.
To wear a mask was to become someone else, for better or worse. Some claimed it granted unthinkable fortune, others spoke of ruin. No one knew where the Collector came from, nor where they vanished to when the city's streets fell silent.
----------------------------------------
Amara had always been a skeptic. Life in the city's dilapidated Quarter Six had hardened her, leaving no room for fanciful tales. Survival required practicality—scavenging, bartering, and outsmarting the ruthless gangs that ruled the area.
But as she stood over her younger brother, Cale, feverish and pale in their shared one-room hovel, desperation gnawed at her skepticism. His illness was spreading fast, and no doctor in the district would treat someone without coin.
She’d heard the stories. She’d dismissed them. Until now.
----------------------------------------
The marketplace bustled with activity, vendors hawking wares from makeshift stalls under flickering lamps. Amara weaved through the crowd, her hood pulled low.
“Looking for something special, miss?” a merchant called, his table overflowing with trinkets and baubles.
“Not from you,” she muttered, her eyes scanning the edges of the square.
A soft laugh sounded behind her. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with a figure draped in shadow, their presence commanding and eerie. The Mask Collector.
Their attire was a patchwork of fine silks and worn leathers, their face obscured by a featureless porcelain mask.
“You seek me,” they said, their voice a whisper that seemed to echo.
Amara swallowed hard. “They say you trade masks for... things.”
The Collector inclined their head. “I do. But the price is never simple.”
“I’ll pay anything,” she said quickly.
“Ah,” the Collector murmured. “The words of the desperate. Tell me, what do you seek?”
“My brother. He’s dying. I need a way to save him.”
The Collector reached into the folds of their cloak and produced a mask. It was plain, carved from dark wood with hollow eyes.
“This mask will give you the face of a healer,” they said. “Knowledge will flow to you, and your hands will mend what they touch.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Amara reached for it, but the Collector withdrew it.
“The price,” they said. “A piece of yourself—one memory, one secret, one sliver of your soul.”
Amara hesitated. “What happens to the piece I give?”
The Collector’s porcelain face betrayed nothing. “It becomes mine.”
After a moment’s pause, Amara nodded. “Take it.”
----------------------------------------
The mask was cold against her skin, but as she tied it on, a warmth bloomed in her chest. The world around her sharpened. The faces of passersby told her their ailments, as if she could see beneath their skin. Her fingers itched with knowledge she hadn’t possessed moments before.
She rushed home, her hands steady as she prepared the tinctures and poultices that had eluded her understanding mere hours ago. Within days, Cale’s fever broke. His color returned, and he smiled for the first time in weeks.
But Amara noticed something strange.
Her memories of the day she and Cale were orphaned—of how she’d promised to protect him—felt distant, like a story she’d heard rather than lived.
She tried to ignore it.
----------------------------------------
Word spread of Amara’s newfound abilities, and strangers began to seek her out. They called her “the healer of Quarter Six,” leaving gifts and begging for help.
One day, a woman arrived, her face half-hidden beneath a tattered scarf. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “I need you to bring my son back. Please.”
Amara’s heart sank. “I’m not—”
The woman interrupted. “The Mask Collector. They can give you what you need.”
----------------------------------------
Amara found the Collector in a narrow alley, as if they’d been waiting for her.
“You’ve returned,” they said.
“I need another mask,” she said, her voice firm.
The Collector tilted their head. “You’re aware the cost will rise?”
“I’ll pay it.”
They drew out another mask, this one intricate and gold, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to shimmer.
“This mask grants the power to reverse fate,” they said. “But be warned: fate resents interference.”
Amara’s hands trembled as she took it.
“The price,” the Collector said softly, “is the memory of your brother’s face.”
Her heart clenched. “I’ll remember everything else, right? His voice? His laugh?”
The Collector nodded.
Amara closed her eyes. “Take it.”
----------------------------------------
The mask’s power was immense, but the act of reversing death came at a greater cost than she imagined. The child returned, his body whole, but his mother wept in horror as she clutched him. He was alive but empty, his eyes vacant.
Amara fled, the weight of her actions crushing her. When she returned home, she realized she couldn’t picture Cale’s face. She spoke to him, pretending nothing had changed, but the loss hollowed her.
----------------------------------------
Months passed. Amara became a recluse, refusing to see those who sought her help. But the Collector’s masks called to her, their promises intoxicating. She could rebuild her life, craft a new reality—but at what cost?
One evening, as the city descended into darkness, she found herself back in the alley.
“You are becoming quite the collector yourself,” the Mask Collector said, their voice tinged with amusement.
“This will be the last,” Amara said. “I want to undo all of it. The masks, the deals, the memories you’ve taken.”
The Collector was silent for a long moment before producing a final mask. Its surface was mirrored, reflecting her face.
“This mask returns what was lost,” they said. “But it requires everything.”
Amara hesitated. “Everything?”
“Your existence, your essence, your name. You will vanish, and the world will go on as if you were never here.”
Her hands trembled as she reached for the mask.
----------------------------------------
As she placed it on her face, the world shifted. Cale’s laughter echoed in her ears, her memories rushing back in a flood. But as quickly as they came, they began to fade again—this time taking her with them.
In the morning, Cale awoke, healthy and whole, in a home that no longer bore any trace of his sister.
And in the alley, the Mask Collector smiled, tucking a porcelain mask with Amara’s likeness into their cloak before disappearing into the shadows.