The existence of words is truly beautiful, because it demonstrates the human desire to understand one another. Within the lovely tapestry of language exists a thread that I consider the most precious of all — something to display, to share, observe and understand as beings with the profound responsibility of cognition; Kintsukuroi, which means "to repair with gold." It is the art of repairing ceramics with golden lacquer and understanding that the mended article is more beautiful for having been broken.

Kaida broke her arm when she was four years old. She stumbled backward and knocked her elbow into the corner of an unfinished glass table, and as crimson blood dripped from her arm, glistening in the moonlight, she merely stood in awe. It was that evening that Kaida discovered it, the existence of magic. Dixteus Efierest, her father, only meant to introduce her to it - an atom of a display. it was a mere spark. A flicker of light. The smallest thing Dixteus had ever conjured. But to Kaida, that single spark was an explosion of fireworks. It danced; the flames flickered in the air like the lips of a forbidden lover that could never surrender a newly found warmth. Kaida squealed in excitement to the extent of salivating when Dixteus hurriedly scooped her into his arms, trying to calm the poor child. Apathetic to her injury, Kaida climbed her father's shoulders for a better view, only to fall right off. Dixteus had to stitch Kaida up by himself, in that very dining room, which he came to avoid from then on. The spark had reflected in her deep, grey eyes, and for what felt like the first time in her entire life, her first time being alive, Kaida drew a warm breath.