The Masked Guest of Driftwood Inn

There is a rule in Driftwood Inn, spoken quietly and never questioned.

"Do not remove the mask."

Once a year, on the cusp of autumn and on the eve of the first frost, an unusual patron arrives before the tavern doors have even been creaked open. No one sees them enter when they come. No one ever quite remembers the spot in which they sat the year before.

The guest wears a mirrored mask that reflects not your face, but your outwards expression. When you frown, the mask will return the scowl. If you smile wryly, it tilts curiously in return.

They do not speak. They order a single drink. They leave behind an envelope by the end of their stay.

This year, Demetri Blackwell expected them as he always had. A cocktail of curiosity, reverence, and dread shook itself up within his tight chest. He harvested a glass from the table and with a practiced hand began to pour a blood currant mead with hints of drook at the end. Demetri slid it across the wood of the table, and nodded his head respectfully. The masked guest raised their glass in silent gratitude.

They sat for two hours that evening. Not a word shared nor spoken between them.

And then the masked guest left, an envelope sat delicately upon the rim of the cup where they'd been moments before. Demetri reached for it and looked it over.

There was no seal. Just an oil-slick sheen and a strange glyph Demetri had never seen on the front- like two keys crossing each other. He opened it.

"You will need to choose soon."

The red ink faded as soon as it had written the sentence, before another took its place.

"Between memory and mercy."

The final sentence spread across the note.

"One cannot carry both."

There was no signature, but someone had carefully drawn a moth in the lower right corner. Its innards pouring out to reveal clock hands intruding upon the little sigil.

No one at the Driftwood Inn slept easily that night.