The death mask hangs in a basement corridor next to the mask of the man who ordered his death. The young man stands and stares at the contrast. The face of knowledge and the face of power. He sees what he came to see, but didn’t find what he was looking for.
There are no answers in the past, only lessons. Everything is open to interpretation. The winners write history. The rebels, their graffiti. The politicians decide what is truth and the peasants labor to make it real.
Two masks hang on a wall. A young man stares, understanding nothing.