Night of Masks.
31.10.2025
The night of masks begins quietly. It is the Halloween night, when the air smells of wax and smoke, of autumn leaves burning somewhere far away. Windows shimmer with flickering lights, and from every house laughter spills into the street. The world holds its breath for a moment, as if waiting for the curtain to rise on a play that happens only once a year.
In this night, the world puts on costumes. Streets glow with the orange light of carved pumpkins, and people wear masks as if they wanted to hide from themselves for a little while. Children laugh in ghostly costumes, their voices ringing like bells in the wind. Adults smile, remembering the time when they still believed fear could be tamed.
With every passing hour the Halloween night beats louder. In homes candles burn low, shadows dance in the windows, and music drifts through open doors. People dance as if they could stop time, though they know the dawn will come. The world forgets its worries and allows itself a taste of madness. Laughter spills through the streets, footsteps echo, and for one brief moment the city feels alive in a way it never does in daylight.
At midnight, the celebration reaches its peak. Music swells, laughter fills the air, and the night hums with restless joy. Behind every mask hides a story. Some dance to forget, others to remember. Under the painted smiles lie the things we do not say aloud, the longing for someone who never returned, the memory of hands we used to hold. The Halloween night makes it easier to pretend that the ghosts walking beside us are only part of the game. Yet in the flickering candlelight it is hard to tell who is playing and who has truly come back.
Sometime after midnight, when the music begins to fade and the air grows still, the masks rest quietly on the tables. They seem harmless, yet in the air lingers a faint echo of laughter and whispers.
Somewhere among the shadows, the lips of one mask begin to move. Barely, as if remembering how to speak. The light from the window trembles on its painted grin. Then, from beyond the silence, comes the sound of footsteps and the slow creak of a door opening.
As if someone had just stood up and left to continue what the night had begun.
