This is the prologue to a story I’ve been currently working on.
Many faces passed up and down Westminster Road each day, all respectively bearing a distinct expression. Every person possessed a detailed and utterly singular mask, crafted by every moment experienced within his or her lifetime and continuously changing as the seconds ticked by. Some were fresh and eager, others timeworn and wise, but all were important. No two were—nor ever could be—the same.
The road was rich in history, full of marvel and intrigue. It had seen change, felt every footstep, heard every sound made and word uttered. It had been the sole witness to the drama of human life that unceasingly played out. A million stories flooded the streets, tumbled from the eaves of houses and the signs of shops, and danced on the wind among discussions and shouts.
However, life would not pause to observe, time would not stop to catch its breath, and the faces bled together into a mass of chaos and bustling traffic. These stories remained untold, trampled into the dusty ground of the old town where they were never bothered again. Secrets melted into the spaces between cobblestones and the cracks in walls. The days hurried on, the nights slept peacefully, and nothing in particular was noticed. This was the first mistake.