You never know what kind of conversation you might overhear at the next table in a magical Lviv coffeehouse.

The rain in magical Lviv is just as enchanting as it is in the ordinary city. Only, while in ordinary Lviv it drives people under roofs, in the magical one, it gathers sorcerers, philosophers, and eccentrics into the coffeehouses. That is precisely why, on that particular evening, no one paid much attention to the argument brewing at the table by the window.

After all, one can hear plenty of strange things in Lviv. Yet, even for a magical city, the question "Can a cauldron be self-aware?" sounded rather unusual.

"In what newspaper did you read such utter nonsense?" An old man in a half-unbuttoned raincoat, holding a copy of Pravda, was clearly convinced that his newspaper of choice would never publish such drivel. "Cauldrons have never spoken, nor have they ever intended to," he blurted out convincingly, with a note of lecture in his voice.

"I beg your pardon, pane Lyubystok, but I must respectfully disagree with that very statement," his companion replied. "You know how many underground organizations exist these days. Just because someone once wrote that cauldrons are merely artifacts for potion-making doesn't mean some sorcerer wouldn't want to—and, moreover, wouldn't be able to—test that theory. Come on, surely you heard that Mrs. Risochka's crystal ball escaped right across from the Lychakiv Cemetery?"

"Yes, I heard. And what of it?"

"Well, exactly! And it didn't even have legs. So why do you call it nonsense?"

"Because that’s exactly what it is! That ball could have simply rolled away. Besides, the old woman was under the influence of a potion. Those witches will tell interviewers absolutely anything!"

"But it is a well-known fact that cauldrons have their own tempers and preferences. Which implies they can understand when something they dislike is happening to them. A cauldron couldn't possibly know what it likes or dislikes if it weren't self-aware! If it could talk, it would tell you what it wants or doesn't want. It simply lacks the means to do so."

"That’s all well and good," pan Lyubystok interrupted, "but flowers also know what they like and what they don't. It is only natural to avoid what causes harm."

A heavy, broad hand gently touched the edge of the newspaper. The old man’s gaze lifted, waiting for a counter-argument.

"Except a cauldron doesn't need to grow. It already is what it is." The reply hit dead center, like a razor blade—sharp and flexible. "Why else would cauldron grooming salons be thriving? Cookware isn't divided into those that like to be washed and those ready to take to their heels and bolt to a neighboring roof at the first opportunity just to avoid being submerged in water!"

Pan Lyubystok’s eyebrows arched into a perfect bow, completely baffled by this younger, fledgling generation.

"My boy, this is just ordinary Lviv: statues come alive here to scare drunk youths, and new streets are discovered every single day. Objects simply record their history into matter. But this is a cauldron, crafted by artisans."

"Why can't a cauldron created by an artisan suddenly become a cauldron that is self-aware?"

Outside the window, the downpour continued to raise its voice, and just as steadily, the chatter in the coffeehouse kept pouring. Five minutes later, they ordered a second round of coffee. The argument had so heavily charged the air around them that the baristas were terrified to bring over their completed order.

"These beliefs of yours in conspiracies and hidden mysteries won't get you published in a reputable newspaper."

"I understand you don't care for my master, but just a few days ago, I heard it with my own two ears—my cauldron was trying to tell me something! It distinctly called me by name. It said: 'Ostap'."

"Pfft!" Pan Lyubystok snorted coffee all over a hastily placed napkin, laughing. "It was just rumbling from the potion! My cauldron has never vanished, never teleported, and most certainly has never spoken."

"But it did say it, I swear on my life!" the young man cried, thumping his chest. "And have you seen what’s inside your practice room? There are three chains in there! And your cauldron is like an ant compared to them! Of course it can't escape; no one could. Perhaps only a city spirit could manage that. If the cauldron-rights activists ever found out about this, you’d never see it again."

The smooth, sharp aroma of coffee invaded the old man’s nostrils. His cup hovered in mid-air. Steepling his hands in front of his face, he stared with glinting eyes, the reflection of his interlaced fingers dancing in his gaze.

"Have you ever heard of Nychka?"

"What’s that?"

Clicking his tongue with immense pride, the old man leaned in and whispered:

"The Se-cret Mar-ket of Used Ar-ti-facts. I will buy cauldrons as fast as they take them away. By your logic, it might not even want to brew potions."

The younger man's eyes narrowed, his shoulders tensed, and he began to sip his coffee nervously.

"And why are you, pane, if I may ask, still working at the Headquarters beneath Vyriy? I was told you complain so often about the number of stairs there. Aren't you wearing the exact same shackles as your cauldron?"

The old man’s gaze instantly went a thousand yards blank. It was as if a sack of gold had been turned inside out, only for lost envelopes from the Department of Prophecies to come tumbling out—the very ones the workers at the Headquarters beneath Vyriy tried so desperately to hide.

"Did Diana on the square tell you that?"

"No, I heard it... just heard it. What matters is that maybe there are cauldrons you can look into as if they were crystal balls. Just like me, choosing to write for Overheard instead of following the family trade. Who knows what kind of magic wands I would have made... A certain amount of attention, skill, and love is what makes an artifact truly become itself."

"Has at least one wand ever spoken?" the old man countered, trying to regain the upper hand.

"Do you honestly think all artifacts must speak? Will can exist without a vocal apparatus. Possessing consciousness, an artifact understands what belongs to it and what doesn't. That’s why it doesn't rush to do something else. Or maybe it simply sees no point because it is being oppressed, just like in your case. You do realize that the laws written by the Headquarters centuries ago have long been buried under a thick carpet of dust. Relevance is hardly the Headquarters' strong suit."

Everyone was listening to this conversation... Even the wooden stirrers had stopped mixing the coffee beans—a detail that should have given pan Lyubystok pause. But even to that, he would have said the stirrer was merely doing its job, claiming the barista had simply gotten distracted by his profound arguments.

"Sees no point, you say..." Silence tolled again like thunderclaps, and the very building facades seemed to hum a thought into pan Lyubystok’s mind: that he was worse off than an artifact that couldn't speak. "If I am good at what I do, then of course I see no point in changing my job."

"But did anyone ever ask you? Did you even have the chance to say so? Right? And if you did have that chance? To actually be heard, would you try to break through, even just a little? Do mages and the society that uses artifacts even want to hear them at all?"

"Get back here!!! Where do you think you're going?!" Shouting shattered the conversation. Everything went flying: trays, sandwiches, coffee cups. "Get back to your station, people want their warming potions!"

It was a cauldron, soaring across the tiled floor of the coffeehouse as if it had slipped right out of a wizard's grasp. But this soaring was extraordinarily intentional.

"Catch it! It doesn't even have legs! How can it be faster than you?!"

The mages' eyes followed the cauldron out into the street.

Suddenly, a comical scene unfolded outside: a gentleman on a roof was trying to lure his cauldron back into the attic; a lady inside a cauldron was carrying books with a strap over her shoulder; and in another cauldron rode a child, shrieking with joy at the speed of their favorite pet.

"Aren't you supposed to handle things like this?" a red-haired man asked pan Lyubystok, managing a faint smile.

"I’m off duty," the old man smiled, savoring the fresh gust of air left in the wake of the cauldron’s escape. For a long time, pan Lyubystok stood watching this display of freedom by cauldrons of all shapes, types, sizes, and patterns.

Turning back to his companion, the old man realized he was facing a chair that had long grown cold.

"The owner told me this cauldron loved cooking borscht, and it absolutely despised making any other kind of dish or potion," the voices of the staff drifted from right behind pan Lyubystok's back. "Does it pull stunts like this often?"

"Oh, quite often. The moment it hears a downpour, it’s gone before you can even blink."

Pan Lyubystok stood on the street, his head tilted toward the sky. Ostap continued to press the workers for details about the cauldron. Meanwhile, the old man’s coffee cup remained on the table, resting squarely on the newspaper section detailing the Headquarters