#zho

“It was. She died in her sleep.” His daughter responds. It has been decades since she looked this young—his daughter having aged her appearance alongside her mortal wife. So she wouldn’t feel awkward about growing old when her half-adepti wife remained youthful.

His daughter has not glanced at him once except to greet him. He does not expect her to.

Zhongli isn’t sure what to say. He finds it inappropriate to seek to impart wisdom on a day like this to his daughter without prompting. He can only hope a warm cup of tea and a small lunch on the side is enough.

He thinks of asking about funeral arrangements, but remembers that this day has been expected for years and the funeral arranged prior with Fai Hu, the 78th Wangsheng Funeral Parlor Director. The death of a human does not typically fall under his job—but if the human was married to an adepti, it does influence the ceremony. He consulted on his spouses’s—her loving parent’s funeral. He will consult on his daughter-in-law’s funeral, too.

Silence hangs between them. His daughter’s slitted eyes watching the steam drift from her teacup.

“Forgive me for not procuring char siu bao on short notice. I am aware it is your favorite.” Zhongli says, hoping a light, temporary subject change cuts through the awkwardness. “The only other quick filling I had on me was the pickled vegetables Ganyu had given me—but as you do not care much for the taste of pickles, I used bamboo shoots and ham instead.”

“It’s alright.” She says, her fingers clasped into themselves and her eyes gazing at the bao’s fluffy exterior. But the bao remains untouched, much like her tea.

Zhongli remembered fondly the day she tried pickles for the first time. His daughter, as most children did, despised vegetables, so his partner, his darling, dearest, departed partner, suggested they pickle the vegetables, hoping she’d like the taste. His daughter made a face, ran to the bathroom, and let out a dramatic puking noise as she spat in the toilet. They never served pickles to her again.

“We could go grocery shopping today.” His daughter says. “I’ll pay. It’s what I can do for suddenly dropping in.”

“There is no need. It would be unreasonable for me to accept that from you on the same day your wife drew her last breath. I have gotten better at mora management anyway.” He hopes he has.

His daughter runs her thumb on the cup’s rim as she clasps it in both hands. Steam has ceased drifting from the tea. Zhongli takes another sip from his cup, and pours himself more. It almost feels rude of him to be the only one drinking tea. He reaches out to touch his daughter’s hand.

She grasps his hand.

“Maybe I should stick to dating other adepti instead. It shouldn’t be hard to find others in Jueyun Karst. I just...I don’t want to deal with everyone I love dying eventually.”

—There, Zhongli felt, it was appropriate to say something.

“An acceptable choice, if the grief is too much to bear.” He replied. “However—Do you remember what I said when you knocked over a vase and broke it when you were playing with Jinfen?” Jinfen, their cat. With the black coat and the dull yellow streaks in her fur reminding Morax of gold dust in the damp, fresh earth seeing the sun for the first time. Her eyes as green as sunkissed grass. She’s gone too.

“I don’t recall. I think I was super young when that happened.”

“You were crying and begging for my forgiveness. And I replied, all things are impermanent. It was a mere vase that met its end. I don’t believe you quite understood what I said, reminiscing on it now. Perhaps you were too young to fully grasp the meaning. With time, we ourselves will come to an end. Even if we last longer than most. It is the same with adepti.”

His daughter looks at him for the first time since he put the tea kettle down.

“Despite the long lives adepti lead, my job at the Funeral Parlor has always remained steady.” He finishes.

His daughter doesn’t immediately respond. Zhongli gives her time to think.

“...I see.” She says. “Does it ever get better?”

A part of Zhongli feels a strong temptation to lie to her. It never gets better. You can manage the grief better than before, but it always hurts as fresh as the first time. He’s never forgotten the pain he felt every time his mortal partners or friends have died. Guizhong’s death is not the only one in his long memory, even if she is the most important to the history of Liyue. It never truly leaves him. It accumulates within him. Yet he chooses to take mortal friends and lovers anyway. His good memory isn’t good or bad for that reason. It’s just a good memory.

“I am afraid it will always hurt.” He replies. “I merely wish to remind you that forsaking your attachment to future mortals won’t protect you entirely from grief.”

His daughter’s slitted eyes furrow in thinking. Zhongli gives her time to think it over as he leaves to brew a fresh pot. He sets down the kettle on the table and pours her a fresh teacup. He is relieved to see her eyes no longer furrowed.

His daughter takes a sip from the cup. Her eyes shut, her hand tipped in a way that mirrors his own way of drinking tea.

Zhongli smiles.