It was my first time wandering this strange city alone. It was both welcoming and repulsive. It extended an invitation I gladly accepted, fully knowing it was a trap.

The creatures on the sidewalks—some slouched, some floating an inch above the ground—didn’t acknowledge me. I wasn’t important enough to be perceived, not relevant enough to be feared. My presence was merely tolerated.

I kept walking until my feet began to ache. A bench appeared like a mirage, lit by a single flickering streetlight. I approached without hesitation. I sat.

That’s when I noticed him.

The Man of Many Faces.

He was already there, legs crossed, eyes closed, dressed like a distant dream. His face changed slowly, like clay softening in warm water. With every blink, a new man emerged—an old friend, a childhood enemy, a stranger from another lifetime.

I was curious. “Who are you?” I asked.

“I am simply a vessel. A container of borrowed voices. I hold what is poured into me, and nothing more.”

His voice was familiar and foreign, layered in accents that didn’t belong to this city—or any other.

I watched as his face shifted—delicate transformations that made me feel like I was staring at every person I’ve ever loved or lost.

“Which of these is your true face?”

“The one that appeals to you the most.”

“What if I cease to exist?”

He opened his eyes. They were my eyes.
He smiled. It was my smile.

“Then I become you.”

I looked down at my hands and counted my fingers. I whispered my name, again and again. But it still sounded like a lie.

I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember walking home. I just remember the bench being empty.

I haven’t seen him since. But I see traces.

In mirrors.
In photographs I don’t remember taking.
In moments when I wonder which version of me I will be today.

And sometimes, late at night, I feel my own face shifting—ever so slightly—in the dark.