Author’s Note
This story comes from old memories of school—crowded hallways, noisy classrooms, and moments of bullying—when I wished I could disappear. Writing it reminded me how much I’ve learned throughout the years. True freedom isn’t hiding from the world, but finding the courage to engage with it, one small act at a time.
—Father Roderick
The Cloak
The market sat on the edge of the village, just beyond the boundary stones. Most people came for spices, cloth, and gossip. Eamon came only when he had no choice.
He moved quickly, head down, hood drawn. His boots scuffed the cobbles. His hands stayed deep in his coat. The air was thick with the stink of goats, honeyed nuts, damp wool, and too many voices rising at once.
Bodies pressed too close. Shoulders bumped without apology. A burst of laughter cracked like thunder behind him—too sharp, too sudden.
He flinched.
He hated crowds. Hated how people’s eyes stuck to him like burrs. Even the thought of small talk made his pulse climb.
He turned to leave—and stopped.
An old woman sat behind a stall made from three planks and a tarp. She sold nothing but trinkets: glass beads, a few carved animals, a bundle of twisted wire charms. And one folded cloak.
It was gray. Not the deep, proud gray of a merchant’s coat, but the soft, worn gray of storm clouds at dusk. Trimmed in threadbare satin. The clasp, shaped like a crescent moon, was scratched and dull.
A scrap of parchment hung from one corner. Hand-lettered, slightly smudged:
“Invisibility Cloak.”
Eamon snorted—a weak sound, more nervous than amused.
“That’s a joke, yeah?”
The woman looked up from her knitting. Her hands didn’t stop.
“No joke,” she said. “You’ll vanish. No one will see you.”
He frowned.
“What’s the catch?”
She kept knitting.
Eamon glanced around—no one else nearby. He stepped closer.
“How much?”
“Four silver.”
He didn’t haggle. He reached into his pouch, counted the coins, and passed them over.
He lifted the cloak. It felt heavier than it looked. Lined in something smooth and cool, like river stone.
As he folded it over his arm, he hesitated.
“Why sell it to me for so little?”
“You look like you could use its help,” she said.
Vanishing
The first time he used it, he’d spilled ink all over the steward’s ledger. The other scribes had laughed. The steward hadn’t.
Eamon’s heart raced. His palms went cold.
He stepped into the hallway, pulled the cloak tight around his shoulders—
—and vanished.
Not a trace. Not a shimmer. Just gone.
He stood frozen, watching the steward storm past without even a glance. He waited until his breath slowed, then left through the kitchens and walked the long way home.
It felt… safe.
He used it again the next day.
And the next.
Quiet
Soon, he used the cloak for everything.
When he ran late. When he forgot a name. When voices turned sharp, or jokes turned on him, or the tavern grew too loud.
He no longer waited to be humiliated. He disappeared before it could happen.
No one could mock you if you weren’t there. No one could hurt you if they didn’t know you existed.
He started sleeping with the cloak folded under his pillow. When people knocked on his door, he slipped it on. Sometimes, he didn’t take it off for hours.
He stopped replying to letters. Skipped dinner invitations. Let others take the blame for missed tasks.
At first, people noticed.
Then they stopped expecting him at all.
And that suited him fine.
The Listener
Word spread of a man who could find things out—quietly. Unseen.
After the town hall let him go, he needed the coin. Ink-stained hands didn’t feed themselves.
He never gave his name. Wore plain clothes. Kept his hood up and his voice low.
“I hear things,” he’d say.
And he did.
He listened at keyholes. Waited motionless behind church pews. Lingered in courtyards and shadowed alleys while secrets spilled from careless mouths.
He solved problems—for a price.
A missing ring. A cheating spouse. A merchant skimming weights.
People called him wise. Clever. Touched by magic, maybe.
But they forgot him the moment the job was done.
He didn’t mind.
That was the point of being invisible.
The Breadmaker
One day, the village baker came.
He was older, thick-armed and red-faced, but tired in the eyes.
“My bread’s been going missing,” he said. “At night. Coin too, now and then. I’ve locked the doors. Checked the shutters. Still, things vanish.”
He rubbed his hands together, nervous. “I have trouble sleeping because of it. It’s exhausting. If you can find out who it is, I’ll pay. Anything I have.”
Eamon nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
That night, he slipped on the cloak.
He found the thief before midnight. A boy—barely sixteen—pale, narrow-shouldered, with flour on his sleeves and guilt on his face. The baker’s son.
The boy crept through the dark like a ghost, filled his satchel with rolls, took two copper coins from the till, and vanished into the street.
Eamon followed, invisible.
The boy didn’t go far. He stopped by the edge of the square and handed the coins and the bread to a girl in rags, no older than ten.
She ate in silence.
Eamon stood there, watching.
The next morning, he told the baker it was strangers—thieves from the outer village.
“Ask the guards to patrol the streets around the bakery around midnight,” he said.
Then he left, before the man could thank him.
Unseen
Three days later, the baker’s son was caught.
The guards had followed him. Found the satchel. The coins.
There was shouting. A crowd.
Eamon watched from the shadows. He saw the girl crying when they took the boy to prison.
A pang of guilt hit him hard. He wanted to step forward. Console her. Offer a coin. Say something.
He reached for the clasp.
But the cloak didn’t let him go.
He tugged at the lining. Pulled harder. Tried again.
Nothing.
He shouted in the street. Threw stones at doors. Begged to be seen.
People passed without a glance.
He wandered the town invisible, voiceless, untouched.
Days blurred. Nights stretched thin. He didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Time peeled away like old parchment.
He wasn’t dead. But he wasn’t alive, either.
Just... stuck.
The Bakery
Eamon stopped counting the days.
And one evening, without quite meaning to, he followed the smell of bread back through the alleys and came to the half-open bakery door.
He slipped in. Noticed the baker working alone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands moving slow. The dough tore. The loaves burned.
He sighed a lot.
Eamon watched.
Something shifted.
While the baker slumped on the stool beside the fire—Eamon picked up the broom.
He swept the flour.
He lit the oven.
He set out fresh ingredients for morning.
The next day, the baker blinked at the cleaned counter but said nothing.
So Eamon stayed.
Each night, he worked in silence. Cleaned. Measured. Mixed. Learned how to fold dough, how to use a peel, how to tell when a crust was ready.
No one saw him.
But the bread got better.
Soon, the bakery was full again—light in the windows, rows of bread cooling on polished counters.
But the baker still moved with silence in his bones.
He never mentioned his son.
Not to the customers. Not even when he passed the spot where the boy had once sat, kneading dough with awkward fingers.
But every night, before he closed the shutters, he lit a single candle on the mantle and let it burn down to nothing.
A Glimpse
One winter morning, a girl came in with a torn apron and pale cheeks.
“My brother’s sick,” she whispered. “We haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
The baker hesitated.
Eamon didn’t.
He picked up the smallest, warmest loaf. Set it on the counter, gently.
The baker had just turned away—to wipe his hands, or check the fire. He didn’t see.
But the girl did.
Her gaze lifted—met his.
For a moment—just one—she saw him.
“Thank you,” she said.
Eamon looked down.
The cloak lay on the floor beside him.
Folded. Still.
He picked it up and stepped outside, into the morning light.
The Return
Eamon followed the northern road past the hills and fields, where the wind bent low through broken fences.
The prison sat as it always had—cold stone, no guards, no sign, just a narrow barred window near the roofline.
He waited below it until footsteps echoed behind the wall.
Then he reached into his satchel and drew out the cloak. Folded it once. Smoothed the crescent clasp.
Held it up.
A shadow moved behind the bars. Fingers curled around iron. A familiar voice, hoarse:
“What is it?”
Eamon looked up, eyes steady.
“An invisibility cloak,” he said.
The boy frowned.
“You’re joking, right? Why give that to me?”
“You look like you could use its help.”
The Gift
That night, the girl woke to a soft knock at her window.
On the sill: a loaf of bread. Still warm. Wrapped in cloth.
She smiled through the cold.
By dawn, the flour had already been swept from the bakery floor.
The ovens were lit. The dough was rising.
And that morning, in the golden light of early sun, the baker smiled at his customers—for the first time in months.
Visible
Eamon walked across the market, smiling at those he passed.
There she was—the old woman, still knitting at her stall, as if she’d never left.
She looked up and met his eyes.
“The man who bought my cloak. Did it help you?”
Eamon smiled and nodded.
“More than you’ll ever know.”
I like the idea! Good story.
The cloak is a tool. It's how it's used that determines whether for good or evil.