October 31st.
The town shimmered beneath rows of orange lanterns, their light trembling on wet cobblestones. From every doorway hung a mask—some smiling, some solemn, some expressionless.
Here, they didn’t call it Halloween.
It was the Festival of Masks.
Every resident wore one until dawn. No one removed it early.
If you did, they said, you’d never find your way out of town again.
Mio fastened the white fox mask her mother had given her since childhood. Each year, her mother polished it and whispered, “Wear this, and you’ll come home safely.” Mio never asked what she meant.
Tonight, the streets were alive with laughter. Her friends wore devils and clowns and witches, skipping between lanterns that swayed like fireflies. But as Mio moved through the crowd, she noticed something strange: beneath the paint and paper, every mask seemed to share the same faint expression—neither joy nor sorrow, only stillness.
“Hey! This way!”
Her friend’s voice echoed from a side alley.
Mio followed, and the sound of celebration dimmed behind her.
The air cooled. The lanterns thinned, until only shadows remained.
At the end of the narrow lane stood a small wooden shrine.
Fox masks hung from ropes in rows, their eyes catching the dim light.
One of them trembled.
“Don’t take it off,” a voice said.
Mio turned.
A girl stood behind her, wearing the same school uniform—and the same fox mask.
“Who are you?”
“I’m you,” the girl said softly. “From last year.”
The world seemed to hold its breath.
“When one returns, another stays,” the girl continued.
“It’s how this town remembers itself.
If you leave, I’ll stay behind.
If you stay, you’ll wear this face forever.”
Mio reached for her mask, but the girl caught her wrist.
“If you take it off,” she whispered, “you’ll have my face.”
A bell rang in the distance—the signal that the festival was ending.
The girl’s grip loosened.
“Go. The town waiting for you will think you’re me. That’s how it always works.”
When Mio opened her eyes, morning light poured through her window.
For a moment she thought she had dreamt it.
But on her desk lay the fox mask.
Inside, written in black ink, were four words:
See you next year.
Downstairs, her mother smiled.
“Welcome back. You made it home.”
“...Yeah,” Mio said, forcing a smile.
In the mirror, her reflection stared back—
eyes calm, lips faintly curved,
the same expression worn by every mask in town.
Outside, new fox masks were already drying in the autumn wind.
One of them tilted slightly,
as if nodding to her,
as if it already knew her face.
