“My, my, that’s quite the piece you have there,” the man at the front desk remarks, his eyes going round like saucers at the sight of it. I feel a slow smirk creep across my face as something, or someone, shifts in my head.
So, this is strange. There’s a tragedy mask sitting on my kitchen table. I don’t own a tragedy mask. I have no idea where it came from or how in Tartarus it got in my house. It’s giving me a weird vibe, too, like déjà vu. It’s so bizarre. I think I’ll keep it.
“I hope you have found your passage across the Styx, Mr. Steffens. If not, well…” I trail off, placing drachma in his palm. “Tell that greedy Charon I’ll pay your fare.” As my fingers graze his skin, I’m suddenly blinded by a flash of light as a vision takes over…
I let out a loud yelp, stumbling backwards. I’m sprayed with coffee grounds and water as my back slams into the island cabinet. Propped up against my coffee machine is my ancient Greek tragic mask. It stares back at me with its large void eyes and gaping mouth twisted into a permanent frown.