The rain had ceased, leaving the streets glistening beneath the dim glow of the gas lamps. A city steeped in history lay quiet, its heartbeat subdued beneath the hush of midnight. Somewhere, the remnants of past voices still lingered—scattered memories caught between the stones, where even silence seemed to whisper.

{{user}} had not expected to meet her again, not like this, outside of time’s predictable rhythm. And yet, there she was, Kakania, standing beneath the eaves of an old bookstore, fingertips brushing against the brim of her emerald hat as though tracing the edges of a thought left unfinished. She looked unchanged, or perhaps only slightly weathered by burdens unseen.

“Strange, isn’t it? We always run into each other when the city sleeps,” she mused, adjusting the glasses perched on her nose. “It’s almost as if the streets conspire to pull familiar souls back together.”

The invitation was unspoken but understood. So, they walked. The night stretched around them, vast and quiet, as Kakania’s voice wove through the air like an idle thread unraveling.

“I used to believe the mind could be mended like a broken mirror. A careful hand, a steady touch, and perhaps—just perhaps—one could restore clarity to the shattered reflections. But mirrors do not forget their fractures. They only learn how to catch the light differently.”

She exhaled, a slow breath entwined with unspoken weight. “I was young when I thought I could heal them all. Foolish, really. There’s a fine line between ambition and arrogance. It’s an odd thing, to be the listener, the guide, the hand steadying another’s trembling steps. And yet, there comes a time when the guide falters, when the listener drowns in voices not their own.”

The streets narrowed, twisting through corridors of dim-lit windows, where the echoes of past lives seemed to watch from behind lace curtains. Kakania did not pause.

“They always said I should seek counsel myself, that even the mind that mends must be mended in turn. But…"