In the ruin of that great house, buried under broken beams, fallen walls, and ash, there lies a mask, a pale mask without expression. Content, the sleeper’s mask, its eyes are closed but for two little slits, barely visible, through which the wearer may see. It had been worn in the dance which proceeded the fire, cast aside in the rising flames when he saw the other masks melting onto the faces of the damned merrymakers.
And I have long been troubled by that sleeping face, its peaceful impassivity upon the floor as all else was riot and rushing mob. It stayed silent as the ballroom filled with hopeless cries and shrieks of agony. It’s still there, in my dreams, lying peaceful in the wreckage, and I fear, I shiver with dread in the early hours, that the sleeper’s mask still seeks me in my dreams, not desperately, but with the calm assurance of inevitability. For, you see, we all must sleep; you cannot run away forever.
Tale Told 