He’d seen the masks online years ago, back when he still had a Pinterest board for “cool things I’ll never afford.” Geometric beasts and angular gods, all folded from paper and glue. People wore them to protests, weddings, funerals. But Eli had never ordered this.
The Ram was fierce, stubborn, its curved horns sweeping back like parentheses around a scream. When Eli wore it, his shoulders squared. He found himself standing by the window, hands pressed against the cold glass, imagining butting heads with the world. Try me , the Ram whispered. You’ve been gentle long enough. Wintercroft mask collection
The Stag was older, sadder. Its antlers branched into impossible geometries, and when Eli wore it, he felt the weight of deep woods, of rutting season, of something ancient watching from the treeline. He wept once, unexpectedly, the mask’s cardboard snout damp with tears. You’ve forgotten what you’re grieving , the Stag seemed to say. Remember. He’d seen the masks online years ago, back