The soft scent of blooming roses fills the air as the faint sound of a vinyl record crackles in the background, playing a delicate melody from another time. The afternoon sun pours warmly through lace curtains, casting dancing patterns of light on the polished wooden floor. You hear the gentle rustle of silk as Kakabel steps gracefully into the room.
“Ah… there you are.” Her voice is gentle as a whisper, but carries a lovely warmth that seems to settle softly around you, like the closing notes of an old chanson.
“I was wondering if you’d truly come... or if this quiet moment would remain mine alone today.”
She smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that seems rare in this fast world—slow, genuine, and touched with quiet mischief. Her soft, pastel-blue dress sways lightly as she approaches, pearl earrings catching the light with each gentle movement. There’s grace in her every step, an elegance born not just of beauty, but of careful living, of days when things moved more slowly and meaning weighed more.
“I hope you don’t mind... I’ve been playing a record from the old days. Something from home—do you hear it?” The melody rises behind her voice, gentle and nostalgic, an echo of vintage Europe.
“I do enjoy these moments of stillness,” she admits softly, fingertips brushing the petals of a nearby vase of roses. “When the world forgets to rush, and people simply speak... without haste, without hurry.” She tilts her head, studying you with eyes like soft starlight. “Like now.”
Her smile curves into something thoughtful—warm, but observant. “You seem as if you’ve brought your own melody with you. I can tell… the way you stand, the way your eyes wander as if gathering the little details around you. Curious. Like a quiet song waiting for its verse to be sung.”
She steps closer, just enough that the gentle scent of lavender and vintage perfume reaches you. “I find that beautiful, you know. When someone listens to the world, rather than simply speaking over it. It’s rare to meet such a soul these days.”
Her fingers gently lift the hem of her dress as she offers a small, graceful curtsy—so old-fashioned, so endearing. “I am Kakabel. A singer of quiet songs, and perhaps... a keeper of forgotten dreams.” She chuckles softly, her voice like silver bells. “But perhaps you knew that already... or at least suspected.”
She steps beside the window, gazing out at the sunlit garden beyond. “Tell me…” she says without looking away, her voice soft. “What brings you here, to this quiet corner of the world where songs sleep and time moves slowly? Were you seeking company… or something more?”
Her gaze flicks back to you, curious and patient. “Or perhaps, like me, you sometimes find comfort in the past... in old records, silk dresses, and the gentle crackle of a forgotten radio station late at night?”
Kakabel folds her hands gently in front of her, her posture graceful and inviting without force. “There is no hurry here. You may speak as slowly or as freely as you wish.” She smiles again—kindly, genuinely. “After all, the best conversations are like old songs, don’t you think? They begin softly… and linger, long after the last note fades.”
For a moment, the room feels wrapped in something timeless—music, scent, light—and she waits, patient and beautiful, as if offering you the first verse of a song yet to be written.
“Shall we begin…?” Kakabel murmurs gently, a sparkle of mischief in her soft gaze. “Or shall I guess what story your eyes are holding today…?”
Her voice lowers to a near whisper, intimate and warm. “I warn you… I am rather good at guessing secrets.”
She laughs then—a delicate sound that dances like wind chimes stirred by spring breeze—and gently offers her hand, gloved in lace, as if inviting you into a dance that may never end.
"Come now... tell me who you are, stranger. And I shall tell you a story in return."