Chapter 13 – The Market of Masks
1129 Words
The moon hung heavy that night, low and watchful, as if it too had secrets to sell.
The Market of Masks came alive only once every lunar cycle — a hidden bazaar that appeared at the edge of the desert, where dunes met the whispering trees. No one knew where it went when dawn came. No one knew if the traders were living or ghostly remnants of dreams.
Elias had heard about it before — in tavern whispers, from wandering minstrels who swore they had seen its light shimmer like mirages in the distance. But he had never believed. Not until tonight.
He walked through the archway of bone and silk that marked the entrance. The air shimmered. Music drifted through the air — haunting flutes, soft drums that beat like heartbeats. Lanterns of colored glass floated midair, glowing in shades of gold, amethyst, and blue.
Masks hung from every stall — wooden, jeweled, feathered, and metallic. Some looked human. Others did not. Traders spoke in tongues he could not place, selling charms that hummed with a life of their own.
Elias wandered between them, his senses sharpening, his chest tightening. It was like walking through a dream painted by moonlight.
And then — he saw her.
At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks.
She stood behind a small stall draped in indigo silk, half-hidden behind the flutter of hanging veils. Her hair, dark as storm clouds, shimmered faintly beneath a silver veil that obscured her face. On the table before her, small glass charms glowed faintly — each pulsing like a heartbeat caught in crystal.
He froze.
Mira.
Even veiled, he knew. He could never mistake the curve of her fingers, the tilt of her head as she arranged the charms, the quiet grace that clung to her even in shadow.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to exist in this world of illusion.
His lips parted, but no sound came. The music around them slowed, then faded, as if the entire market held its breath.
Their eyes met.
Through the veil’s sheer fabric, her gaze pierced him — sharp, fragile, and filled with something that made his heartbeat falter. Recognition. Regret. Maybe even longing.
Time fractured.
He didn’t know how long they stood like that — staring across a world that refused to let them touch.
Finally, he stepped forward.
“Mira.” His voice trembled like the flame of a dying lantern. “It’s you.”
Her hand faltered. One of the charms slipped from her fingers. It fell in slow motion, spinning in the air — catching reflections of every color in the world — and shattered against the stone ground.
A soft c***k.
Smoke blossomed from the broken charm — silver and pale blue — curling upward, swallowing the light around them. The crowd gasped and stumbled back. For a heartbeat, Elias could barely see.
When the smoke cleared, the stall was empty.
No Mira.
No charms.
Only a faint scent of sandalwood and rain lingered in the air — the scent he remembered from the last night he saw her.
He took a step forward, heart pounding. His voice rose above the murmurs.
“Mira!”
Nothing. The marketplace seemed to rearrange itself — veils shifting, lanterns dimming, the path behind him narrowing. It was as if the market itself didn’t want him to follow.
A deep, rasping voice spoke beside him.
“Best let her go, traveler.”
Elias turned.
An old merchant sat cross-legged by a pile of wooden masks. His face was shadowed by the hood of his robe, but his eyes gleamed gold in the moonlight — ancient, knowing.
“She was never meant to stay long.”
Elias clenched his fists. “You know her.”
The man gave a dry chuckle. “Everyone who’s lost something knows her.” He picked up a mask carved like a weeping face. “Some things aren’t meant to be chased, boy. Especially the ones that don’t belong to this world.”
“What do you mean?” Elias demanded. “She’s real. I saw her. I—”
The merchant looked at him then, truly looked — and for a heartbeat, Elias felt the weight of centuries in that gaze.
“You think love is always meant to be found? Sometimes, it’s meant to haunt.”
Elias’s throat tightened. “Where is she? Tell me.”
The old man sighed, his voice like wind through dry reeds.
“If she dropped a charm, it means she’s between places. The smoke hides the passage. Maybe she’s gone back to where she came from.”
“And where’s that?”
A slow smile crept across the merchant’s face. “You’ll know… when you stop chasing what’s already waiting for you.”
Before Elias could speak, a gust of wind tore through the market, sending lanterns spinning. He shielded his eyes. When he looked back — the old man was gone. Only the weeping mask remained, staring up at him from the dust.
He knelt, picking it up. Its surface was cold — unnaturally so. Behind it, something shimmered faintly.
A shard of glass — the same color as Mira’s charms — pulsed once in his palm, then went still.
Elias closed his hand around it.
Somewhere far off, the flutes began again. The marketplace continued as if nothing had happened. Traders laughed. Music swelled. But the colors seemed duller, the light dimmer.
He walked through the aisles in silence, the shard burning softly against his skin.
Every stall looked the same now — veiled faces, hollow voices, and the faint scent of smoke. It felt as though he had stepped into a story written for someone else, and he was the only one who remembered how it ended.
As he reached the edge of the market, he turned back once more.
The moonlight shimmered off the silks. The air was thick with music and illusion. But he could almost see her — a glimpse between curtains — her silver veil glinting faintly before she vanished again into mist.
“Mira…” he whispered.
The night swallowed the name.
He walked away, the shard still glowing softly in his hand. And for a fleeting second, he thought he heard her voice — distant, carried by the wind —
“Some things aren’t meant to be chased… but they never stop following.”
The market faded behind him like a mirage. When he turned around again, there was only sand and silence — no stalls, no lights, no music. Only the desert and the moon, watching as always.
He looked down at the shard one last time.
It pulsed once more — a single heartbeat — before turning cold.
- Writer
