The morning light filtered through the diamond-faceted windows of Whispering Pines Cottage, casting dappled patterns across the worn wooden floor. Madam Setsuna sat at her kitchen table, her steel cup cooling beside her. Her fingers, once nimble and quick, now moved with deliberate care as she massaged her wrist. The pain had become her unwelcome companion these past few years.
Strela, her Japanese Spitz, observed from her cushion by the glass door, her intelligent eyes tracking her mistress’s movements. The dog’s white fur caught the sunlight, creating a halo effect around her attentive form. Her glasses were a custom creation by Madam Setsuna. She had fashioned them after the dog developed vision problems. They reflected the morning light as she tilted her head in concern.
“Just the usual morning stiffness,” Madam Setsuna reassured her companion, though they both knew it was more than that. The ache had deepened, spread. It wasn’t just her joints now; every muscle in her body seemed to protest even the most mundane movements.
The Bialetti coffee maker gurgled its final notes on the Slovenian ceramic stove. Even reaching for the coffee had become an exercise in pain management. Madam Setsuna frowned slightly. This wouldn’t do. A detective with limited mobility was at a significant disadvantage.
“I believe it’s time to approach this methodically, Strela,” she announced, her voice calm despite the discomfort. “This pain is a mystery to be solved, like any other.”
Strela’s ears perked up. She recognized the tone—it was the same one Madam Setsuna used when beginning a new investigation. The dog rose from her cushion and padded over to sit attentively beside her mistress.
The family doctor’s office had been a disappointment. Despite blood tests and examinations, the conclusion was frustratingly vague: age-related arthritis, nothing unusual for someone of Madam Setsuna’s years. The doctor had prescribed anti-inflammatories and suggested gentle exercise.
“But this doesn’t explain the muscle pain,” Madam Setsuna had pointed out. She only received a sympathetic but unhelpful shrug in response.
Back at Whispering Pines Cottage, she spread her medical documents across the kitchen table. Strela watched her mistress slip into investigation mode. Her mistress examined each report with her magnifying glass. It was as if they were clues at a crime scene.
“The pain is not just in the joints. It radiates through the muscles,” she murmured, more to herself than to Strela. “The blood work shows nothing unusual. The doctor sees nothing extraordinary. So, we must look beyond the ordinary.”
This was how their investigations always began—with observation, documentation, and research. Madam Setsuna reached for her notebook, its leather cover worn smooth at the corners, and began to make notes.
She discovered a physiotherapy clinic not far from their cottage through her inquiries. It specialized in trigger point massage. This massage was specifically designed to release muscle tension. After several phone calls and discreet questions to neighbors who had visited the clinic, she decided it warranted investigation.
“We have an appointment in three weeks,” she informed Strela one evening. “I’ve heard interesting things about their approach.”
The red-brick building of the physiotherapy clinic in near city was surrounded by cars when Madam Setsuna arrived. Inside, the waiting room buzzed with conversation, filled mostly with elderly patients. The atmosphere was unexpectedly jovial, with doctors and patients exchanging light-hearted banter.
Madam Setsuna observed everything with quiet attention. The patients seemed genuinely happy, almost euphoric—unusual for people presumably in pain. She noted how the staff moved with confident efficiency, how the patients’ eyes followed them with something akin to reverence.
When her name wasn’t called, she approached the reception desk. She was told that her case was “complex.” It required consultation with their head – Dr. Fabiano.
“Doctor Fabiano,” the man introduced himself half an hour later, his handshake firm and confident. His qualifications hung framed on the wall. They included impressive qualifications and experience in various prestigious settings. There were also photographs showing him with Olympic athletes, including the women’s ski team.
His assessment was thorough but his conclusion surprised her.
“You could come for physiotherapy for six months,” he said, “or we could try our latest technology. Something revolutionary.”
From a drawer, he produced small, round metallic discs.
“Tao-patches,” he explained. “Nano-crystals that work continuously to restore muscle balance. You wear them on specific points on your body, and they work twenty-four hours a day.”
Madam Setsuna’s skepticism was evident on her face. Fabiano quickly added, “Many of our patients have experienced remarkable results. The technology is cutting-edge.”
The investigator in her was intrigued, even as the rationalist raised questions. But with few alternatives and persistent pain, she agreed to try the patches.
Fabiano applied them to specific points on her body. He provided instructions for maintenance. He scheduled a follow-up appointment in one month.
“To share your experience,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The drive back to Whispering Pines Cottage was filled with doubt. This wasn’t what she had expected—no massage, no conventional therapy, just these mysterious patches clinging to her skin.
Strela greeted her at the door, nose quickly drawn to the strange new scent on her mistress. The dog sniffed curiously at the patches, then backed away with an uncharacteristic whine.
“Yes, I’m suspicious too,” Madam Setsuna murmured, stroking the dog’s head. “But let’s watch and document, as we always do.”
She began a journal that evening, recording the placement of each patch and her physical sensations. By the third day, she noticed something unexpected: the muscle stiffness was subsiding. By the end of the week, her movements were more fluid than they had been in months. The joint pain remained, but the muscle tension—that constant, unyielding grip—had loosened.
“It’s almost miraculous,” she admitted to Strela one morning as she performed her stretches with greater ease. “But that’s precisely what concerns me.”
Miracles, in Madam Setsuna’s experience, warranted investigation.
She began researching the Tao-patches, combing through medical journals and scientific publications. Information was surprisingly scarce for a “revolutionary technology.” What she did find came mostly from patient testimonials. These included effusive praise and claims of life-changing results. Yet, there was little scientific explanation of how the patches actually worked.
One evening, she sat at her computer in the small study off the kitchen. Strela suddenly appeared at her side and dropped something onto the desk. It was one of the patches that had fallen off earlier in the day. The dog nudged it with her nose, then looked up at Madam Setsuna meaningfully.
“You think we should examine it more closely? Excellent suggestion, Strela.”
Under her powerful magnifying glass, the patch revealed little of its secrets. It appeared to be a simple metallic disc with adhesive backing. Nothing visibly special or “nano-technological” about it.
Madam Setsuna’s search deepened. She reached out to contacts in scientific fields. She posted inquiries on specialized forums. Finally, she discovered a worrying article online: “Taopatch: Is It a Scam?”
The article detailed allegations that the patches had no proven scientific basis. It stated that their claimed nanotechnology was fictitious. The placebo effect accounted for most reported improvements.
“Yet I feel better,” Madam Setsuna mused, flexing her fingers. “Objectively better.”
Strela tilted her head, her glasses sliding slightly down her snout.
“Yes, I know. The placebo effect is powerful indeed. But there’s something else at work here, I suspect.”
Her investigation took a new direction. Rather than focusing solely on the patches, she began observing the clinic’s operation more closely. During her follow-up visit, she arrived early. She lingered late. She observed the comings and goings and the interactions between staff and patients.
She noticed patterns. The same patients were returning weekly despite supposedly wearing 24/7 patches. The hushed conversations stopped when she approached. Fabiano’s eyes narrowed slightly when she asked detailed questions about the technology.
“Tell me,” she asked casually as he checked her patches, “how exactly do these nano-crystals interact with muscle tissue?”
His explanation was verbose but vague. It was full of scientific-sounding terminology. Upon later research, this terminology proved to be either misused or entirely fabricated.
On her third visit, Madam Setsuna arrived with a small, discreet device in her handbag. This device was a frequency scanner she borrowed from a former colleague. Doctor Fabiano applied a new patch to her neck. As he did so, the scanner detected a low-frequency electrical pulse. The pulse was emanating from the disc.
“Not nano-crystals,” she murmured to Strela that evening. “Simple electrical stimulation devices. Effective, certainly—but hardly revolutionary, and certainly not what they claim.”
The investigation was detailed. It showed that the clinic charged patients premium prices. They were paying for what was could be basic effect of kinesio tape. Madam Setsuna found out that many companies had already made kinezio tape technology available. They produced patches cost mere pennies to produce. They were remarkably easy to use. No specialist application was required.
“The question is,” she said to Strela as they sat by the ceramic stove. Its warmth soothed her still-aching joints. “Is this merely an unethical business practice, or something more sinister?”
The answer came unexpectedly. While organizing her papers one evening, she noticed a pattern. It was in the clinic’s patient records. She had managed to glimpse it during her visits. Those with the most “complex” cases—like herself—were predominantly older, financially comfortable, and living alone.
“They’re targeting vulnerable individuals,” she realized. “People desperate for relief, with the means to pay and without close family who might ask questions.”
Strela’s ears flattened against her head, a low growl rumbling in her throat.
“My thoughts exactly,” Madam Setsuna agreed.
The next morning dawned clear and crisp at Whispering Pines Cottage. Madam Setsuna sat at her kitchen table. She held the familiar weight of her steel cup in her hand. She watched as the sun rose over the pine trees. Her muscles ached less these days. This was partly due to the electrical stimulation of the patches. It was also partly due to the exercise regimen she had developed based on legitimate physiotherapy research.
Beside her lay a thick folder containing her entire investigation. It included photographic evidence of the patches’ interior components and frequency readings. There were also financial records showing the clinic’s pricing structure. She had carefully collected testimonials from other patients, many of whom had not experienced the relief they were promised.
“It’s time to conclude this case,” she told Strela, who sat attentively beside her chair. “The regional medical board will get our findings as part of my will.” She smiled wryly. “At least they have a duty to better organize pain care in evidence-based medicine routine.”
“The interesting thing about pain,” Madam Setsuna reflected. She watched as Strela settled into her favorite spot by the ceramic stove. “Understanding its source is half the battle.”
She was about to remove the last patch from her shoulder and place it into the evidence bag, but hesitated. The pain would return once she removed it. No matter what they called this technology, the small piece of metal was working. She had already paid for it. Strela sensed her mistress’s hesitation. She pressed her paw firmly on the evidence bag. It was as if to say this wasn’t the time to give up on the miracle patches. Their marketing might be dubious.
Outside, the pine trees whispered their secrets in the morning breeze. Inside Whispering Pines Cottage, Madam Setsuna closed her investigation notebook, adding one more solved mystery to her collection.
“Now,” she said to Strela, whose tail wagged in anticipation, “I believe we’ve earned ourselves a walk through the forest. These old joints may protest, but they’ll have to learn they cannot stop us.”
Together, detective and dog stepped out into the morning light. They were ready for whatever mystery awaited them next at the edge of the whispering pines.
Stories of Madam Setsuna 