The first time Elias heard of the Order of the Veiled Hour, he was standing in the rain outside a forgotten library on the edge of town. The building had no sign, no name, just a heavy wooden door that creaked when touched. He had been following a trail of old newspaper clippings, each one mentioning strange disappearances and whispered rumors about a secret group that met under the cover of darkness. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ink and dust. Shelves stretched endlessly into shadow, and the only light came from a single flickering bulb overhead. A man in a long coat sat at a desk, his face obscured by a hood. "You're not the first to come looking," he said without looking up. "But you may be the last." Elias asked what the Order did. The man only smiled. "They watch. They listen. And they remember." He handed over a small leather-bound book, its pages filled with names and dates, some of which matched the stories Elias had read. But what caught his attention was the symbol on the cover—a crescent moon overlapping a spiral, like a clock winding backward. Over the next few weeks, Elias became obsessed. He found more clues hidden in city archives, old diaries, and even a cryptic message etched into the base of a statue in the park. Each piece pointed to a meeting place: an abandoned theater called the Midnight Masquerade. No one remembered it being open, but Elias found it one night, its windows dark and its doors sealed with rusted chains. He broke in through a side window, the glass crunching beneath his boots. Inside, the stage was still set for a performance, though the curtains were tattered and the seats empty. A single spotlight shone on a chair in the center of the stage. As he approached, the air grew colder, and the walls seemed to pulse faintly, as if breathing. A voice spoke from behind him. "You shouldn't have come here." Elias turned, but there was no one there. The voice was soft, almost melodic, like a lullaby sung in another language. He felt a presence, not threatening, but watching. He looked around again, and this time, he saw them—figures in masks, half-formed shadows moving between the rows of seats. They didn’t speak, but their eyes followed him. One of them stepped forward, the mask revealing a face that wasn’t quite human, with eyes too large and a mouth that didn’t move. The figure extended a hand, and in it was a key. "You’re not ready," it whispered. Then it vanished. Elias ran out of the theater, heart pounding. He returned to the library, but the man in the coat was gone. The book had disappeared, and the room was empty except for the echo of his own footsteps. He tried to forget, but the symbols haunted him. He began to see them everywhere—in graffiti, on street signs, even in the pattern of cracks on the pavement. One night, he found himself drawn back to the theater. This time, the doors were open. Inside, the lights were on, and the stage was occupied. A dozen figures stood in a circle, their masks glinting in the glow of a single lantern. At the center, a woman in a silver dress held a mirror, its surface swirling with images that weren’t real. She looked up, and her eyes met his. "You’ve seen the truth," she said. "But do you understand it?" Elias shook his head. "What is this place?" "The Keeper’s Circle," she replied. "We are the memory of the world. We collect what is lost, what is forgotten. We don’t destroy. We preserve." "But why me?" he asked. She tilted her head. "Because you listened. Because you saw what others ignored." Then, without warning, the mirror shattered, and the room went dark. When the light returned, the figures were gone, and the theater was silent once more. Elias stood alone, the key still in his pocket, now warm to the touch. He never saw the Order again, but sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he saw something else staring back. Not him. Not anyone he knew. Just a reflection that moved when he didn’t. And every so often, he would hear the whisper of the voice from the theater, reminding him that some secrets are meant to be kept—not buried, but remembered.