Kakania

A lady's hat meeting the aesthetic standards of the Edwardian era. The hatter specially set a gold-striped organza as the main decoration to balance its proportions after widening the brim. This hat is also adorned with long dyed green eagle feathers, allowing the wearer to stand out silently when necessary. This is a special customization, as the wearer of such an item is usually not so ostentatious.

Parrots are often held to be divine messengers, capable of conversing with both humans and gods through their gift of speech. However, the stylist adorned the interviewee with the feathers not as a testament to her skills but to endow this elegant attire with a touch of passion and courage.

A copper hand mirror with a noticeably blurry reflection. She gently insists that essence matters more than outward appearance—perhaps clarifying one's inner reflection is simply part of her profession.

Its hardware is worn, and its leather is wrinkled due to water damage. For a genuine leather case cherished by its owner, it hasn't been well-maintained. However, considering the mirrors and arcanum trinkets inside, it's surprising that it has survived the ordeal of its owner proving their identity.

An imported fan made from sandalwood with ribs carved in Baroque patterns adorned by the thinnest silk, favored by Europeans.

When unfurled, it gently wafts out a delightful fragrance capable of soothing guests, lifting their spirits, and helping them find "peaceful awareness."

A slim chain of tools—a salve tin, scissors, keys, probes—arranged to avoid jingling while she walks.

Contrary to expectations, the tools were all quite mundane. After enough interviews, we've learned the greatest healers rely on nothing more than relentless resolve.

It is said that this set of keys can open a wooden door in the attic of a house in the center of Vienna, and also leads to the heart of one or several girls known as "patients." But in any case, this is already a story of yesterday's world.

A brooch of metal and glass, shaped like wings, taken from a dusty box and polished anew.

The hostess of the salon acts like your closest friend while maintaining the perfect distance, much like this brooch, just above the heart, but never piercing the skin.

A rare symbol: Asclepius's serpent curled around a frameless window.

No one can truly step inside another's heart; doctors can only guide people toward a door that they must open themselves. Her answer came with unmistakable sadness and resignation.

The Enlightenment once again brought about the liberation of thought. Scholars and social activists raised the torch of reason, dispelling the dark veil that the high and mighty had cast over the minds of the people, and further raising humanity's reverence for civilized society. They firmly believed that reason led to the door of truth, that all things could be deduced from the known, that man could use reason to control everything about himself and place it above sensibility. Thus, human nature was once again imprisoned, and reason became another fetter that caged the spirit.

They stuck their heads into the noose of rationalism, unwilling to remove the crown representing light, even when oppressed to the point of breathlessness. Humans should be pure, evolved, without a trace of beastliness, hence Studies on Hysteria and The Interpretation of Dreams are rendered absurd—man must not disregard ethics or they will be like beasts, nor should they lose their reason to desire, nor fulfill their dirty wishes in dreams.

In the treatment room, Kakania closes a hefty volume, the solid yet tiny sound of the book closing temporarily ending her contemplation of the work. The door opens gently, and a lady of status walks in, sitting on the sofa opposite, extending her well-defined hand and gently holding Kakania's.

"Thank you, Doctor ... I never knew ... such desires were completely natural to have ... " The lady's sad face shows a blush of shame, but her eyes drop in a liberated manner, "Now I feel like a complete person ... not just an empty shell ..."

Kakania covers the lady's hand with her own, patting it gently, then discreetly withdrawing her hand under the pretext of putting the book back on the shelf: "Yes, we should respect all that we are."

I recognized this shoe-shining boy, his face flushed red. Deeply, deeply burying his head, I could see his exposed neck, and the inside of his collar blackened by the dirt accumulated on his skin.

I didn't want his service, so I took my feet off the stool several times, but my father asked me, "What's wrong, Klara? Does he not satisfy you?" The boy also said, "Please let me shine your shoes, miss, your leather shoes are so beautiful." I looked at my father helplessly and angrily, he looked at the boy with a dismissive, impatient look, as if he had never spoken to him, never once kindly ruffled his fuzzy head. He was so content to enjoy his service as a person of high rank. As he said, after leaving the old and noisy house, we should say goodbye to everything from the past—the "Vingler" surname has been renewed, and we must cut off all ties with our past as peddlers.

But I couldn't do it, I remember him running through the alleys with me in shoes that had lost their soles, I remember his nose spraying snot when he laughed heartily, and I remember saying goodbye to him just a few days ago. But now all memories have turned into a bowed head in front of me, and the distance between us can no longer be measured with a ruler.

But how could a child dare to defy the authority of her father? I had to endure, and after he finished his work, I took the coin handed out by my father, secretly folded with it my own money, and gave it all to the boy.

"My father will thank you for this," the boy said, but my father turned away. "I don't know your father," he said, "Klara, the party's about to start."

Just like that, my former friend became a passing shoeshine boy. His name stuck in my throat, as my father wanted, sealed together with the "shameful" years. I could no longer say it.

Pandora Wilson: So, the mirror is a medium for you to perform your arcane skill.

Kakania: Yes, Ms. Mouth.

Kakania: To be precise, any material that can reflect light and form images can serve as a medium for me to activate my arcane skill.

Kakania: Water, silver cups, glass, other people's eyes ... There are many more I can use, but the images they reflect are extremely vague and distorted, like a lake with constant ripples, making it impossible to discern anything.

Pandora Wilson: Then please tell me, Miss Kakania, were you able to make anything out of my image in the coffee in your hand?

Kakania: Please forgive my rudeness, Ms. Mouth.

Pandora Wilson: I have endured numerous attempts to discover my identity. May I ask what you can see of me?

Kakania: Oh ... a hint of red, it seems like a metaphor for destiny, but more like the capricious stroke of a painter on a canvas, a red that is very artistic and begs for deeper exploration.

Pandora Wilson: ...

Pandora Wilson: Your insight is very sharp.

Pandora Wilson: Not only did you remind me that I've always lacked protection from non-arcane skills, but you also helped me eliminate a batch of defective lipstick.

Kakania: Maybe next time we can sit down and talk?

Pandora Wilson: I'd never give you that opportunity to succeed, Miss Kakania.