MASK – Trust & Lies

In a sleepy mountain town where fog kissed the rooftops every morning and owls whispered secrets into the night, there lived a sculptor named Lior. He was neither famous nor wealthy, but his work—delicate clay masks shaped with poetic precision—was quietly admired by travelers and locals alike. His masks didn’t just mimic faces; they echoed souls. No two were alike, and some even swore they could feel the emotions trapped in them.

One autumn, as leaves burned orange and air grew sharp, a young woman named Neve wandered into Lior’s studio. Her smile was the kind that wrapped around your heart before your brain had time to object. Soft-spoken, with curious eyes and a faint scar across her jawline, she claimed she was a writer searching for characters. She said the masks called to her.

Day by day, she returned, asking Lior about each mask’s story—who inspired it, why it frowns or laughs or seems to weep even in silence. Lior, usually guarded, found himself speaking more than sculpting. Her presence felt like a balm, the kind you didn’t realize you needed until it soaked into the bruises of your past.

She watched him work. She brought him tea. She listened like the world paused just to hear

him. And over weeks, Lior’s solitude softened. His hands moved freer. He even began sculpting a mask shaped like her face—an unspoken gesture of affection, a quiet hope sealed in clay.

One day, she didn’t return.

Days passed. Then weeks. Lior tried to carry on, convincing himself she was a traveler, after all, and perhaps she had just moved on. But the void her absence left lingered like smoke in an empty room.

Then came the storm.

It wasn’t just wind and rain—it was news. A masked art exhibition had opened in the capital city, just a few hundred miles away. “A breathtaking collection of masks sculpted by Neve Alayen,” the posters read. Award-winning. Original. Inspired by forgotten faces.

Curiosity clawed at Lior until he finally made the journey. The gallery was drenched in golden lights and echoes of admiration. And there, displayed with chilling elegance, were his masks. The sad one inspired by his mother. The one shaped from his childhood fear. Even the unfinished one—a half-formed smile, her smile—sat in a glass case.

A placard read: “Neve Alayen – Masks from the Soul.”

The twist of betrayal was sharp, but it wasn’t anger that filled Lior. It was disbelief wrapped in a quiet ache. He remembered the scar on her jawline, the one she said was from a childhood accident. But now, under the gallery lights, he realized—she never talked about her past. Only about his.

He didn’t confront her. He didn’t scream or sue. Instead, Lior returned to his studio, sat before a block of untouched clay, and sculpted one final mask. It had her features—soft lips, patient eyes—but something else too. A second face behind the first, hidden just beneath the surface, twisted in a silent snarl.

That mask never went on display. It sat alone on a shelf behind curtains, facing the wall.

Some say it still weeps at night.

Because even in a room full of art, Lior learned too late—

Not all beauty is truth.

Not all warmth is light.

And sometimes, the softest voice wears the sharpest mask.