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Chapter One: "Last Words"
The day my father died, he looked me in the eyes and said, "Don't trust anyone."
At the time, I didn't understand what he meant. I was only eleven. It sounded like the ramblings of someone who had lost his mind, like everyone said. But now, two years later, those words haunt me every day.
I remember standing by his hospital bed, the cold air smelling of antiseptic and fear. His face was pale, his eyes wild, darting from me to the door like someone—or something—was coming for him. He grabbed my hand, squeezing too hard, his voice low and raspy.
"Don't trust... anyone. They wear masks... all of them. You can't see it... but I can."
He collapsed after that. No more words. Just silence. And I was left standing there, gripping his hand, unsure of what had just happened.
At the funeral, people kept telling me how sorry they were. They called my father a good man who worked too hard, who had "broken down" in the end. They said things like, "He wasn't himself," and "Stress got to him." But their eyes didn't match their words. Their eyes were empty.
Mom cried, but her tears felt wrong, like they weren't really hers. I couldn't explain it. Every hug felt cold. Every comforting word felt like a lie. I tried to shake it off, to tell myself I was just grieving. But my father's last words kept ringing in my ears: Don't trust anyone.
That's when I started to notice the masks.
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Two years later, those memories are all I have left of him. And every time I walk through the streets of our town, I see what he was talking about. People laugh, they smile, they go about their day, but something's missing. It's in the way their eyes glaze over, like they're not really there.
I walk past Mrs. Donovan's bakery. She waves at me from behind the counter, her usual warm smile plastered across her face. But there's something wrong with it—like it's stuck there, glued in place. Her eyes are empty, hollow. Like a puppet.
I keep walking.
My heart beats faster as I head home, trying not to look at anyone else. It's everywhere. People moving like they're alive but not really living. Like they're playing a part in some twisted play. And I'm the only one who can see it.
Maybe that's what drove my father mad.
I stop at the corner of my street, my fists clenching. I pull the crumpled letter from my pocket, the one my father wrote just before he died. It's torn and smudged, but the words are still clear: They wear masks, but they're not people anymore. Trust no one.
The letter shakes in my hands. A gust of wind tugs at it, threatening to pull it away, but I hold on. It's all I have left of him.
I fold it up and tuck it back into my pocket. My father wasn't crazy. He saw something—something real. And now, it's up to me to figure out what.
I start walking again, my eyes scanning the faces around me. I don't know who's hiding behind those masks, or what they want, but one thing is clear: I can't trust anyone. Not anymore.
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End of Chapter One
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