When I was a child, I thought masks were made for pretending.
Now I know they were made for remembering.

Centuries ago, when autumn turned the air sharp and the nights began to whisper, people wore masks not to hide — but to invite.
They believed the world between worlds opened for a moment, and that the faces we borrowed helped the ancestors find their way back home.
Fire crackled, cider simmered, and the air smelled like smoke and stories.
It was never about fear — it was about communion.

Maybe that’s why we still love this season.
Something ancient stirs each time the days grow shorter — a quiet urge to honor what came before, and what still lives within us.
We no longer carve our masks from bark or bone, but we wear them just the same — bravery for the trembling, laughter for the lonely, perfection for the uncertain.

And every year, as the veil thins, life gives us another chance to lay one of them down.
To look up at the night sky — unmasked, unhurried — and whisper,
“I remember.”