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The shorter tilted a head beneath the cone and laughed once, a sound like a match struck. “Because a mask makes questions safer,” he said. “It turns blame into costume and guilt into spectacle. No one can point at you if you are part of the pageant.”
Inside, the light was muted to a syrupy gold. The pews smelled of candle smoke and the memory of tears. The congregation was small—old men in neat suits, teenagers who attended for credit, and a scattering of those who came because there was nowhere else to stand. No one expected a performance; that would presuppose consent. These two expected nothing but to be seen through.
“We’ll be read whether we consent or not,” said the taller. “Words act like mirrors in crowded rooms—someone will see themselves.”
“Why wear a mask to hide what is already broken?” asked the taller of the two, voice low and dry as old wood.
