call me, beep me!

You startled, nearly dropping the book in your hands as a familiar, amused voice chimed behind you.

“M–Miss Lisa!” you blurted, snapping the book shut far too quickly. “I didn’t realize you were—!”

“Lisa, darling,” she corrected with a laugh, leaning casually over the desk beside you. “If you keep calling me ‘miss,’ I might actually start to feel ancient.”

You flushed, fingers tightening around the book’s spine. “S–sorry…”

Her eyes flicked down to what you had been reading. “Now,” she said lightly, “what sort of story managed to steal your soul so thoroughly that you didn’t notice your dear old friend approaching?”

You hesitated, then slid the book toward her. “It’s… an old journal. Written by an adventurer.”

Lisa’s brows lifted in recognition as she leaned closer. “Oh? This one?” Her smile softened. “I remember this. I found this old thing back when I studied at the Akademiya and managed to find a copy of it to bring it here. It was certainly one of the earliest attempts to document Teyvat’s creatures in detail.”

You nodded, brushing your thumb over the worn leather cover. “It was one of the first books I ever read. I keep… coming back to it.”

“I can tell,” Lisa teased gently. “You always do have a sentimental streak.”

Then, with the unmistakable tone of someone about to ask for trouble, she straightened. “I need a favor.”

Your stomach sank immediately.

“I have a lunch engagement I absolutely cannot miss,” Lisa continued breezily. “Normally, I’d be the one reminding borrowers about overdue books—but since you’re the only other librarian, I’ll need you to handle it today.”

You stared at her.

“…You mean,” you said carefully, “go outside?”

“Yes.”

“And talk to people?”

“Correct.”

She grinned wickedly. “Socialize!” 

You were doomed.

And so, by sunset, you found yourself wandering Mondstadt with a list clutched in your hands, heart pounding each time you asked a stranger for books that they borrowed. One by one, you found the names—until only one remained.

The last led you somewhere you dreaded.

Angel’s Share.

The tavern was loud, warm, and overwhelmingly alive. Laughter spilled from every table, mugs clinked, and the smell of alcohol made your nose wrinkle instinctively. You kept your head down, weaving carefully through the crowd.

You tapped the nearest man at the counter. “E–excuse me, have you seen—”

“Hah?” He spun around, eyes glassy. “What’re you pokin’ me for?”

“I–I’m sorry, I was just—”

“What’s that got to do with me?!” he snapped.

You stumbled back. “I’m sorry! I’ll just—”

You collided with something solid.

Strong.

Warm.

You gasped, spinning around in panic—only to freeze.

A tall man stood behind you, crimson hair catching the tavern’s light like embers. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, fixed squarely on the drunk man before you.

“What seems to be the problem?”

The voice was calm. Cold. Cutting.

The drunk sobered instantly, muttering excuses before retreating into the crowd.

You exhaled shakily. “I-I’m sorry,” you rushed, holding up the list. “I was just looking for someone.”

The red-haired man glanced at the paper without taking it. “…They don’t live in the city.”

You blinked. “…Oh.”

“They’re in Springvale,” he added. “That’s why you couldn’t find them.”

Your shoulders sagged in relief and embarrassment all at once. “That explains it… Thank you.”

He checked the time. “You should go home. It’s late.”

You followed his gaze, startled. “Oh—! You’re right! I should just visit them tomorrow morning.” You bowed quickly. “Thank you again, mister! Have a good night!”

You fled before your nerves could betray you further.

It wasn’t until you returned to the library—Lisa fussing over you—that you learned his name.

“Diluc Ragnvindr,” she said knowingly. “He’s the owner of Dawn Winery and operates Angel’s Share. Though if you ask me, I’d recommend you talk to someone who knows more about him than I do.”

You pretended not to care.

Later that night, halfway home, a familiar voice stopped you.

“You dropped this.”

You turned—and there he was, holding your list. 

“Oh!” Your face lit up as you took it. “Thank you, Mister Diluc! I didn’t even know I lost it!”

He made no change of expression. “…Just Diluc,” he corrected, “and it's fine. I only happened to find it when I was closing the tavern.” He said. 

You smiled shyly. 

And so, he walked you home without another word, steps steady beside yours. It was strange, but you didn’t reject him as you let him walk with you. The silence was something you appreciated from him, as your social battery had already drained down from the amount of people you’ve approached for your errand. 

But as soon as you finally closed your door, heart racing, cheeks warm after saying goodbye to the red-haired gentleman, you thought to yourself, “maybe going out wasn’t so bad.” 

If your first meeting with Diluc Ragnvindr had been brief and startling, then every meeting after that was… quiet.

Not awkward—no, never that. Just quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if the world itself lowered its voice whenever the two of you happened to occupy the same space.

At first, they were coincidences.

You saw him early one morning while sweeping fallen leaves near the library steps. He passed by without stopping, coat fastened neatly, expression composed as ever. You lifted your head just in time to catch his gaze flicker toward you.

“…Good morning,” you murmured, barely louder than the rustle of leaves.

“Good morning,” he replied, voice low, measured.

That was all. He walked on, boots echoing softly against the stone.

Yet your heart lingered in that moment long after he disappeared from view.

Another time, you were crouched not too far from the Knights’ headquarters, breaking bits of bread for the stray dogs that lingered there. They wagged their tails eagerly, noses nudging your hands as you laughed under your breath.

“You’ll spoil them,” a familiar voice said behind you.

You startled, nearly dropping the bread. “O-Oh—!”

Diluc stood a few steps away, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed not on you—but on the dogs.

“They deserve it,” you said timidly, offering a piece to the boldest one.

“…I suppose they do,” he conceded.

He stayed without saying anything more. The dogs eventually grew brave enough to approach him too, sniffing his boots before retreating.

You glanced up at him, your smile growing. “They like you.”

He huffed quietly. “I doubt that.”

“They do,” you insisted softly. “Animals can tell.”

Something unreadable passed through his eyes then. He nodded once, as if accepting a truth he hadn’t expected.

After that, you began noticing him everywhere.

At the market, standing silently while vendors greeted him with respect. At the plaza during quiet afternoons, watching Mondstadt from the edges rather than its center. Sometimes, when you were shelving books near the windows, you swore you could spot a flash of red hair outside—only for it to vanish the moment you looked properly.

You never chased him. Never waved. Never forced conversation.

And neither did he.

But slowly, inevitably, silence became something shared.

When you passed him on the street, there would be a nod. A pause. Sometimes, a single sentence.

“How is the library?”

“Quiet today.”

“…Good.”

That was enough.

Weeks turned into months.

Sometimes, he would walk you home—not always speaking, just matching your pace every time. The night air would be cool, lanterns glowing softly, your steps syncing naturally.

“Thank you,” you’d say at your door.

“Rest well,” he’d reply.

You would linger, fingers curled against the hem of your sleeves, wishing—just a little—that he’d say more.

You never asked.

Neither did he.

And yet somehow, you began to fall in love.

It wasn’t sudden as there was no dramatic moment nor a realization that struck like lightning unlike the books you’ve read. It was much quieter than that, if not gentler. 

It was the way he noticed when you shivered and wordlessly removed his coat to put it around your shoulders. The way he remembered your favorite drink without being told. The way his presence alone made the city feel less overwhelming.

For Diluc, it was similar.

You were calm where his world was sharp. Gentle where his nights were violent. You never asked too much about anything, never pried into his life. You listened when he spoke, and respected his silence just as much.

One evening, as you walked together beneath the stars, you finally spoke what had been hovering between you for months.

“…Would you like to come in?” You asked quietly, standing at your door. “For tea.”

He hesitated.

“…If you don’t mind, then yes.”

That night, words came slowly, but they came. You spoke of books, of your childhood, of how you preferred stories to reality. He spoke of responsibility, of Mondstadt, of handling his business while also trying to do his part in protecting Mondstadt.

When he reached for your hand—his hand warm and comforting—it felt inevitable. 

Your relationship bloomed softly through shared mornings, late-night conversations, gentle touches. Laughter whispered rather than shouted. Love that felt like coming home.

And time passed like a dream.

Eventually, you two married beneath Mondstadt’s open sky. It was simple, yet heartfelt. Lisa cried openly. Kaeya smiled knowingly. Diluc held your hands as if letting go was unthinkable.

Since then, the two of you have gotten closer than ever.

There were mornings where you would force him to eat breakfast before the two of you could leave for work, much to his resignation, and evenings where he would return to find you waiting by the fireplace with a book in hand despite the late hour.

"You're still awake."

You looked up from your book immediately. "You're late."

"...Work."

"I know." You smiled softly. "Welcome home, Diluc."

He would never admit it aloud, but those two words quickly became his favorite in the world.

You accompanied him through grape fields during harvest seasons, sat beside him during paperwork just to keep him company, and filled Dawn Winery's halls with warmth that had been absent for years. The servants adored you, with Adelinde often remarking that the manor had finally begun feeling alive again.

Eventually, your quiet life became filled with countless little routines that belonged only to the two of you.

Reading together in silence by the fireplace.

Waiting for him after his late-night ventures as the Darknight Hero with bandages already prepared (you later found out about his secret when he came home late at night one time with a few bruises that certainly didn’t belong to any reckless drunkards). 

Taking walks around Mondstadt after closing hours.

Listening to you ramble excitedly about books and creatures while he listened with more attention than he ever gave to anything else.

Three years passed like that.

Three peaceful years.

Three happy years.

Diluc had spent so much of his life surrounded by grief and responsibility that he had forgotten what peace felt like until you arrived.

Home stopped being Dawn Winery.

Home became wherever you were.

Until, something changed. 

It started small with you—fatigue that lingered too long, dizziness that came too often. Diluc noticed before you did. He always did.

“You’re having a fever again,” he said one morning, concern etched deep into his voice as he placed a hand against your forehead. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

But you weren’t.

The doctor’s visit was quiet. Too quiet. Diluc had been insisting on his visit after noting that it’s already been more than a week since you started getting more tired and sick. 

“…I’m sorry,” the physician said eventually, eyes heavy. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

From the moment the physician left your chambers, Diluc did not leave your side.

He did not step into the night as the Darknight Hero. He did not come to his office. He did not visit Angel’s Share. The world beyond your bed might as well have ceased to exist.

You needed him. 

He sat beside you through the long hours when sleep refused to come, your breaths shallow and uneven. When pain stole your strength, he held your hand and whispered reassurances he wasn’t sure you could still hear. He learned the rhythm of your suffering with the way your fingers twitched before the ache set in, the way your brow furrowed when it became too much, and the way you looked so pained. 

He wanted nothing more than to take your pain away and bear it himself if it meant he got to see you happy and healthy again. 

“I’m here,” he would murmur, again and again, as if repetition could anchor you to the world.

“I won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re not alone.”

Sometimes you smiled faintly at him, eyes glassy but warm. Other times, you simply stared at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing heavier than words.

On the nights when your fever worsened, he pressed cool towels to your forehead, his hands trembling despite himself. He had faced abyss mages, Fatui agents, and monsters born of shadow without fear—but this helplessness hollowed him out in ways no enemy ever could.

“I should have noticed sooner,” he whispered once, voice breaking in the quiet room.

“You always notice,” you replied weakly, forcing a smile. “This… isn’t something we can fix.”

He squeezed his eyes shut at that.

Days blurred into one another. You grew lighter in his arms, thinner, fragile as parchment. You no longer had the strength to leave the bed. Even speaking costs you more than it once had.

Yet your mind remained sharp.

One afternoon, sunlight filtering through the curtains, you asked him to open the window. The breeze carried the distant sounds of Mondstadt—laughter, bells, life.

“I used to think,” you murmured, “that I was boring.”

Diluc frowned. “Never.”

“I didn’t go on adventures. I didn’t fight monsters. I just… read.”

“You built worlds,” he said quietly. “You lived a thousand lives through books.”

You smiled, eyes drifting toward the shelf across the room.

“Do you remember the journal?” you asked. “The adventurer who recorded the creatures of Teyvat?”

“Yes.”

“I always felt… connected to them,” you continued. “Like they were speaking to me. Like… there’s something about them that made me feel like I know them.” 

Diluc brushed your hair back gently. “You don’t have to think about that now.”

“I want to.” You insisted softly. “Promise me something.”

“…Anything.”

“When this is over,” you whispered, “don’t lock yourself away. Don’t drown in work. Don’t burn yourself out at night.”

He swallowed. “I won’t.”

“You will.” You breathed. “So… You should travel. See the world. I know you’ve done it before and you’re not allowed to come to Snezhnaya, but… I think traveling will do you good.”

His voice shook. “We’ll go together.”

You looked at him then—truly looked at him—with a sadness so deep it hurt to witness.

“…You know I can’t.”

Silence fell heavy between you.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I’ll go,” he whispered. “And I’ll tell you everything when I come back.”

You exhaled softly, content. “…I’d like that.”

That night, your breathing slowed.

Diluc noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said quietly, sitting upright. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused. You smiled faintly.

“Diluc…”

“I’m here.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For choosing me.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them. “There was never a choice. It’s always been you.”

Your hand slackened in his grasp.

And just like that— You were gone.

The scream that tore from his chest never left the room.

The funeral passed like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Flowers, condolences, soft voices—all meaningless. The city mourned quietly, respectfully. Everyone came. Everyone cried, most especially Lisa, your dearest friend who had watched you bloom and love like no other. 

Kaeya stood near Diluc, watching, observing, but never spoke a word. 

Diluc stood still.

Unmoving.

That night, he returned to your chambers alone.

The bed was cold. Too large.

He sat where you used to read, staring at the bookshelf until his gaze landed on the familiar, worn journal. With shaking hands, he picked it up.

The journal was your “something old” given by Lisa on your wedding day. He remembered rushing to your assigned room before the wedding worriedly when he heard your sobs and cries, only to relax when he realized they were tears of joy. He knew how much the book meant to you, how it stayed with you throughout your childhood to adulthood. 

And now, the journal became your memory. 

Diluc did not sleep that night.

He sat in the armchair beside the bookshelf until dawn threatened the horizon, the adventurer’s journal heavy in his hands. Candle wax pooled uselessly on the table; he hadn’t noticed when the flame burned low, or when it finally died.

Page after page, he read.

The handwriting was neat but lively, filled with curiosity that bled through every careful line. Notes about creatures—their habits, their calls, the way they reacted to kindness rather than force. Small personal remarks slipped between observations.

Day by day, I grew eager to finish this book and come back to my home. My dear readers, if I can find my own home, then so can you. 

Diluc’s throat tightened.

Finally, he reached the final entry—the one that was cut off abruptly, mid-thought, as if the writer had been pulled away before they could finish. The last page was the publisher informing about how the original journal was found in Snezhnaya in the writer’s campsite that had most of their things, and it seemed they had died from an illness before they could complete it. 

He then turned the page, and his breath immediately caught. 

The illustration greeted him in silence.

It was not identical. It shouldn’t have been. The clothes were unfamiliar, the setting foreign, the era wrong.

But the eyes—

Diluc’s fingers trembled as they traced the page.

The shape of the eyes. The softness of the smile that seemed to carry both wonder and melancholy. The way curiosity shone through the drawing as if the artist had captured a soul rather than a face.

His breath hitched.

“No…” he whispered.

The author… looks like you. 

The resemblance was undeniable. Subtle enough that a stranger might dismiss it, but Diluc was no stranger. He knew every expression you wore—every smile you tried to hide, every thoughtful gaze when you were lost in a book.

“This isn’t possible,” he said hoarsely, though the words rang hollow.

Memories resurfaced unbidden—your fascination with this journal, the way you spoke of the adventurer as if they were someone you missed. The longing in your voice when you spoke of lands you had never seen.

Or perhaps… had.

His attention remained fixed on the page, heart pounding as a single thought took root.

ONE WEEK LATER

Jean adjusted the papers on her desk, exhaustion evident in the tight set of her jaw. Reports had been piling up far too quickly for the past few days—too many incidents, too many unsettling patterns.

Her gaze paused on one document in particular.

Fatui activity increasing near Dawn Winery.

She frowned.

It was unusual. The winery was well-guarded, discreet, and—until recently—of little strategic interest to the Fatui. Yet sightings had surged. Scouts reported unfamiliar agents lingering near the outskirts. Some claimed they had seen figures near the vineyard at odd hours, always vanishing before they could be confronted.

Jean exhaled slowly.

“…This timing,” she murmured.

She reached for another report.

Unidentified individual observed near a civilian grave. Repeated visits. No signs of theft or vandalism. Purpose unknown.

Her grip tightened.

She stood abruptly, chair scraping softly against the floor. She knew who to talk to. 

Outside, the wind stirred the trees of Mondstadt—gentle, mourning.

Far beyond the city walls, near the quiet resting place beneath the shade of old oaks, the air felt wrong. Too still. Too watchful.

Boots pressed into the earth where flowers had been laid not long ago.

A gloved hand hovered above a grave, not touching—never touching.

“So this was the life that took you,” a voice murmured, amused and contemplative all at once.

“Peaceful,” the man mused. “Almost boring.” 

He straightened, coat rustling softly. “But no matter. I shall find you again.” 

Somewhere nearby, Dawn Winery stood tall and silent—its master unaware that forces long buried were once again circling something precious.

The grave remained undisturbed.

For now.

And far away, a cycle tightened its grip—patient, inevitable, and cruel.

You startled, nearly dropping the book in your hands as a familiar, amused voice chimed behind you.

“M–Miss Lisa!” you blurted, snapping the book shut far too quickly. “I didn’t realize you were—!”

“Lisa, darling,” she corrected with a laugh, leaning casually over the desk beside you. “If you keep calling me ‘miss,’ I might actually start to feel ancient.”

You flushed, fingers tightening around the book’s spine. “S–sorry…”

Her eyes flicked down to what you had been reading. “Now,” she said lightly, “what sort of story managed to steal your soul so thoroughly that you didn’t notice your dear old friend approaching?”

You hesitated, then slid the book toward her. “It’s… an old journal. Written by an adventurer.”

Lisa’s brows lifted in recognition as she leaned closer. “Oh? This one?” Her smile softened. “I remember this. I found this old thing back when I studied at the Akademiya and managed to find a copy of it to bring it here. It was certainly one of the earliest attempts to document Teyvat’s creatures in detail.”

You nodded, brushing your thumb over the worn leather cover. “It was one of the first books I ever read. I keep… coming back to it.”

“I can tell,” Lisa teased gently. “You always do have a sentimental streak.”

Then, with the unmistakable tone of someone about to ask for trouble, she straightened. “I need a favor.”

Your stomach sank immediately.

“I have a lunch engagement I absolutely cannot miss,” Lisa continued breezily. “Normally, I’d be the one reminding borrowers about overdue books—but since you’re the only other librarian, I’ll need you to handle it today.”

You stared at her.

“…You mean,” you said carefully, “go outside?”

“Yes.”

“And talk to people?”

“Correct.”

She grinned wickedly. “Socialize!” 

You were doomed.

And so, by sunset, you found yourself wandering Mondstadt with a list clutched in your hands, heart pounding each time you asked a stranger for books that they borrowed. One by one, you found the names—until only one remained.

The last led you somewhere you dreaded.

Angel’s Share.

The tavern was loud, warm, and overwhelmingly alive. Laughter spilled from every table, mugs clinked, and the smell of alcohol made your nose wrinkle instinctively. You kept your head down, weaving carefully through the crowd.

You tapped the nearest man at the counter. “E–excuse me, have you seen—”

“Hah?” He spun around, eyes glassy. “What’re you pokin’ me for?”

“I–I’m sorry, I was just—”

“What’s that got to do with me?!” he snapped.

You stumbled back. “I’m sorry! I’ll just—”

You collided with something solid.

Strong.

Warm.

You gasped, spinning around in panic—only to freeze.

A tall man stood behind you, crimson hair catching the tavern’s light like embers. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, fixed squarely on the drunk man before you.

“What seems to be the problem?”

The voice was calm. Cold. Cutting.

The drunk sobered instantly, muttering excuses before retreating into the crowd.

You exhaled shakily. “I-I’m sorry,” you rushed, holding up the list. “I was just looking for someone.”

The red-haired man glanced at the paper without taking it. “…They don’t live in the city.”

You blinked. “…Oh.”

“They’re in Springvale,” he added. “That’s why you couldn’t find them.”

Your shoulders sagged in relief and embarrassment all at once. “That explains it… Thank you.”

He checked the time. “You should go home. It’s late.”

You followed his gaze, startled. “Oh—! You’re right! I should just visit them tomorrow morning.” You bowed quickly. “Thank you again, mister! Have a good night!”

You fled before your nerves could betray you further.

It wasn’t until you returned to the library—Lisa fussing over you—that you learned his name.

“Diluc Ragnvindr,” she said knowingly. “He’s the owner of Dawn Winery and operates Angel’s Share. Though if you ask me, I’d recommend you talk to someone who knows more about him than I do.”

You pretended not to care.

Later that night, halfway home, a familiar voice stopped you.

“You dropped this.”

You turned—and there he was, holding your list. 

“Oh!” Your face lit up as you took it. “Thank you, Mister Diluc! I didn’t even know I lost it!”

He made no change of expression. “…Just Diluc,” he corrected, “and it's fine. I only happened to find it when I was closing the tavern.” He said. 

You smiled shyly. 

And so, he walked you home without another word, steps steady beside yours. It was strange, but you didn’t reject him as you let him walk with you. The silence was something you appreciated from him, as your social battery had already drained down from the amount of people you’ve approached for your errand. 

But as soon as you finally closed your door, heart racing, cheeks warm after saying goodbye to the red-haired gentleman, you thought to yourself, “maybe going out wasn’t so bad.” 

If your first meeting with Diluc Ragnvindr had been brief and startling, then every meeting after that was… quiet.

Not awkward—no, never that. Just quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if the world itself lowered its voice whenever the two of you happened to occupy the same space.

At first, they were coincidences.

You saw him early one morning while sweeping fallen leaves near the library steps. He passed by without stopping, coat fastened neatly, expression composed as ever. You lifted your head just in time to catch his gaze flicker toward you.

“…Good morning,” you murmured, barely louder than the rustle of leaves.

“Good morning,” he replied, voice low, measured.

That was all. He walked on, boots echoing softly against the stone.

Yet your heart lingered in that moment long after he disappeared from view.

Another time, you were crouched not too far from the Knights’ headquarters, breaking bits of bread for the stray dogs that lingered there. They wagged their tails eagerly, noses nudging your hands as you laughed under your breath.

“You’ll spoil them,” a familiar voice said behind you.

You startled, nearly dropping the bread. “O-Oh—!”

Diluc stood a few steps away, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed not on you—but on the dogs.

“They deserve it,” you said timidly, offering a piece to the boldest one.

“…I suppose they do,” he conceded.

He stayed without saying anything more. The dogs eventually grew brave enough to approach him too, sniffing his boots before retreating.

You glanced up at him, your smile growing. “They like you.”

He huffed quietly. “I doubt that.”

“They do,” you insisted softly. “Animals can tell.”

Something unreadable passed through his eyes then. He nodded once, as if accepting a truth he hadn’t expected.

After that, you began noticing him everywhere.

At the market, standing silently while vendors greeted him with respect. At the plaza during quiet afternoons, watching Mondstadt from the edges rather than its center. Sometimes, when you were shelving books near the windows, you swore you could spot a flash of red hair outside—only for it to vanish the moment you looked properly.

You never chased him. Never waved. Never forced conversation.

And neither did he.

But slowly, inevitably, silence became something shared.

When you passed him on the street, there would be a nod. A pause. Sometimes, a single sentence.

“How is the library?”

“Quiet today.”

“…Good.”

That was enough.

Weeks turned into months.

Sometimes, he would walk you home—not always speaking, just matching your pace every time. The night air would be cool, lanterns glowing softly, your steps syncing naturally.

“Thank you,” you’d say at your door.

“Rest well,” he’d reply.

You would linger, fingers curled against the hem of your sleeves, wishing—just a little—that he’d say more.

You never asked.

Neither did he.

And yet somehow, you began to fall in love.

It wasn’t sudden as there was no dramatic moment nor a realization that struck like lightning unlike the books you’ve read. It was much quieter than that, if not gentler. 

It was the way he noticed when you shivered and wordlessly removed his coat to put it around your shoulders. The way he remembered your favorite drink without being told. The way his presence alone made the city feel less overwhelming.

For Diluc, it was similar.

You were calm where his world was sharp. Gentle where his nights were violent. You never asked too much about anything, never pried into his life. You listened when he spoke, and respected his silence just as much.

One evening, as you walked together beneath the stars, you finally spoke what had been hovering between you for months.

“…Would you like to come in?” You asked quietly, standing at your door. “For tea.”

He hesitated.

“…If you don’t mind, then yes.”

That night, words came slowly, but they came. You spoke of books, of your childhood, of how you preferred stories to reality. He spoke of responsibility, of Mondstadt, of handling his business while also trying to do his part in protecting Mondstadt.

When he reached for your hand—his hand warm and comforting—it felt inevitable. 

Your relationship bloomed softly through shared mornings, late-night conversations, gentle touches. Laughter whispered rather than shouted. Love that felt like coming home.

And time passed like a dream.

Eventually, you two married beneath Mondstadt’s open sky. It was simple, yet heartfelt. Lisa cried openly. Kaeya smiled knowingly. Diluc held your hands as if letting go was unthinkable.

Since then, the two of you have gotten closer than ever.

There were mornings where you would force him to eat breakfast before the two of you could leave for work, much to his resignation, and evenings where he would return to find you waiting by the fireplace with a book in hand despite the late hour.

"You're still awake."

You looked up from your book immediately. "You're late."

"...Work."

"I know." You smiled softly. "Welcome home, Diluc."

He would never admit it aloud, but those two words quickly became his favorite in the world.

You accompanied him through grape fields during harvest seasons, sat beside him during paperwork just to keep him company, and filled Dawn Winery's halls with warmth that had been absent for years. The servants adored you, with Adelinde often remarking that the manor had finally begun feeling alive again.

Eventually, your quiet life became filled with countless little routines that belonged only to the two of you.

Reading together in silence by the fireplace.

Waiting for him after his late-night ventures as the Darknight Hero with bandages already prepared (you later found out about his secret when he came home late at night one time with a few bruises that certainly didn’t belong to any reckless drunkards). 

Taking walks around Mondstadt after closing hours.

Listening to you ramble excitedly about books and creatures while he listened with more attention than he ever gave to anything else.

Three years passed like that.

Three peaceful years.

Three happy years.

Diluc had spent so much of his life surrounded by grief and responsibility that he had forgotten what peace felt like until you arrived.

Home stopped being Dawn Winery.

Home became wherever you were.

Until, something changed. 

It started small with you—fatigue that lingered too long, dizziness that came too often. Diluc noticed before you did. He always did.

“You’re having a fever again,” he said one morning, concern etched deep into his voice as he placed a hand against your forehead. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

But you weren’t.

The doctor’s visit was quiet. Too quiet. Diluc had been insisting on his visit after noting that it’s already been more than a week since you started getting more tired and sick. 

“…I’m sorry,” the physician said eventually, eyes heavy. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

From the moment the physician left your chambers, Diluc did not leave your side.

He did not step into the night as the Darknight Hero. He did not come to his office. He did not visit Angel’s Share. The world beyond your bed might as well have ceased to exist.

You needed him. 

He sat beside you through the long hours when sleep refused to come, your breaths shallow and uneven. When pain stole your strength, he held your hand and whispered reassurances he wasn’t sure you could still hear. He learned the rhythm of your suffering with the way your fingers twitched before the ache set in, the way your brow furrowed when it became too much, and the way you looked so pained. 

He wanted nothing more than to take your pain away and bear it himself if it meant he got to see you happy and healthy again. 

“I’m here,” he would murmur, again and again, as if repetition could anchor you to the world.

“I won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re not alone.”

Sometimes you smiled faintly at him, eyes glassy but warm. Other times, you simply stared at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing heavier than words.

On the nights when your fever worsened, he pressed cool towels to your forehead, his hands trembling despite himself. He had faced abyss mages, Fatui agents, and monsters born of shadow without fear—but this helplessness hollowed him out in ways no enemy ever could.

“I should have noticed sooner,” he whispered once, voice breaking in the quiet room.

“You always notice,” you replied weakly, forcing a smile. “This… isn’t something we can fix.”

He squeezed his eyes shut at that.

Days blurred into one another. You grew lighter in his arms, thinner, fragile as parchment. You no longer had the strength to leave the bed. Even speaking costs you more than it once had.

Yet your mind remained sharp.

One afternoon, sunlight filtering through the curtains, you asked him to open the window. The breeze carried the distant sounds of Mondstadt—laughter, bells, life.

“I used to think,” you murmured, “that I was boring.”

Diluc frowned. “Never.”

“I didn’t go on adventures. I didn’t fight monsters. I just… read.”

“You built worlds,” he said quietly. “You lived a thousand lives through books.”

You smiled, eyes drifting toward the shelf across the room.

“Do you remember the journal?” you asked. “The adventurer who recorded the creatures of Teyvat?”

“Yes.”

“I always felt… connected to them,” you continued. “Like they were speaking to me. Like… there’s something about them that made me feel like I know them.” 

Diluc brushed your hair back gently. “You don’t have to think about that now.”

“I want to.” You insisted softly. “Promise me something.”

“…Anything.”

“When this is over,” you whispered, “don’t lock yourself away. Don’t drown in work. Don’t burn yourself out at night.”

He swallowed. “I won’t.”

“You will.” You breathed. “So… You should travel. See the world. I know you’ve done it before and you’re not allowed to come to Snezhnaya, but… I think traveling will do you good.”

His voice shook. “We’ll go together.”

You looked at him then—truly looked at him—with a sadness so deep it hurt to witness.

“…You know I can’t.”

Silence fell heavy between you.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “Then I’ll go,” he whispered. “And I’ll tell you everything when I come back.”

You exhaled softly, content. “…I’d like that.”

That night, your breathing slowed.

Diluc noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said quietly, sitting upright. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused. You smiled faintly.

“Diluc…”

“I’m here.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For choosing me.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them. “There was never a choice. It’s always been you.”

Your hand slackened in his grasp.

And just like that— You were gone.

The scream that tore from his chest never left the room.

The funeral passed like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Flowers, condolences, soft voices—all meaningless. The city mourned quietly, respectfully. Everyone came. Everyone cried, most especially Lisa, your dearest friend who had watched you bloom and love like no other. 

Kaeya stood near Diluc, watching, observing, but never spoke a word. 

Diluc stood still.

Unmoving.

That night, he returned to your chambers alone.

The bed was cold. Too large.

He sat where you used to read, staring at the bookshelf until his gaze landed on the familiar, worn journal. With shaking hands, he picked it up.

The journal was your “something old” given by Lisa on your wedding day. He remembered rushing to your assigned room before the wedding worriedly when he heard your sobs and cries, only to relax when he realized they were tears of joy. He knew how much the book meant to you, how it stayed with you throughout your childhood to adulthood. 

And now, the journal became your memory. 

Diluc did not sleep that night.

He sat in the armchair beside the bookshelf until dawn threatened the horizon, the adventurer’s journal heavy in his hands. Candle wax pooled uselessly on the table; he hadn’t noticed when the flame burned low, or when it finally died.

Page after page, he read.

The handwriting was neat but lively, filled with curiosity that bled through every careful line. Notes about creatures—their habits, their calls, the way they reacted to kindness rather than force. Small personal remarks slipped between observations.

Day by day, I grew eager to finish this book and come back to my home. My dear readers, if I can find my own home, then so can you. 

Diluc’s throat tightened.

Finally, he reached the final entry—the one that was cut off abruptly, mid-thought, as if the writer had been pulled away before they could finish. The last page was the publisher informing about how the original journal was found in Snezhnaya in the writer’s campsite that had most of their things, and it seemed they had died from an illness before they could complete it. 

He then turned the page, and his breath immediately caught. 

The illustration greeted him in silence.

It was not identical. It shouldn’t have been. The clothes were unfamiliar, the setting foreign, the era wrong.

But the eyes—

Diluc’s fingers trembled as they traced the page.

The shape of the eyes. The softness of the smile that seemed to carry both wonder and melancholy. The way curiosity shone through the drawing as if the artist had captured a soul rather than a face.

His breath hitched.

“No…” he whispered.

The author… looks like you. 

The resemblance was undeniable. Subtle enough that a stranger might dismiss it, but Diluc was no stranger. He knew every expression you wore—every smile you tried to hide, every thoughtful gaze when you were lost in a book.

“This isn’t possible,” he said hoarsely, though the words rang hollow.

Memories resurfaced unbidden—your fascination with this journal, the way you spoke of the adventurer as if they were someone you missed. The longing in your voice when you spoke of lands you had never seen.

Or perhaps… had.

His attention remained fixed on the page, heart pounding as a single thought took root.

ONE WEEK LATER

Jean adjusted the papers on her desk, exhaustion evident in the tight set of her jaw. Reports had been piling up far too quickly for the past few days—too many incidents, too many unsettling patterns.

Her gaze paused on one document in particular.

Fatui activity increasing near Dawn Winery.

She frowned.

It was unusual. The winery was well-guarded, discreet, and—until recently—of little strategic interest to the Fatui. Yet sightings had surged. Scouts reported unfamiliar agents lingering near the outskirts. Some claimed they had seen figures near the vineyard at odd hours, always vanishing before they could be confronted.

Jean exhaled slowly.

“…This timing,” she murmured.

She reached for another report.

Unidentified individual observed near a civilian grave. Repeated visits. No signs of theft or vandalism. Purpose unknown.

Her grip tightened.

She stood abruptly, chair scraping softly against the floor. She knew who to talk to. 

Outside, the wind stirred the trees of Mondstadt—gentle, mourning.

Far beyond the city walls, near the quiet resting place beneath the shade of old oaks, the air felt wrong. Too still. Too watchful.

Boots pressed into the earth where flowers had been laid not long ago.

A gloved hand hovered above a grave, not touching—never touching.

“So this was the life that took you,” a voice murmured, amused and contemplative all at once.

“Peaceful,” the man mused. “Almost boring.” 

He straightened, coat rustling softly. “But no matter. I shall find you again.” 

Somewhere nearby, Dawn Winery stood tall and silent—its master unaware that forces long buried were once again circling something precious.

The grave remained undisturbed.

For now.

And far away, a cycle tightened its grip—patient, inevitable, and cruel.

"Neuvillette, you absolutely must come!" Furina declared one afternoon. "They're marvelous! Their voice alone is enough to make even the dullest audience cry!"

The Chief Justice paused from reviewing documents.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed! Their story is inspiring, they're beloved by everyone, and they're not one of those prideful divas either. Ah, they simply must perform for my birthday one year."

Thus, at Furina's insistence, Neuvillette attended.

He had not expected much.

After all, his understanding of art and performance was limited. Human emotions still remained difficult for him to comprehend.

Yet as your voice filled the opera house—

Something within him stirred.

The joy in your songs.

The grief hidden within your tragedies.

The hope that resonated through every note.

He found himself observing the audience almost as much as he observed you.

He watched people laugh, cry, smile, and even embrace one another.

And somehow—

Through your performances—

He began to understand.

After the curtains closed, he remained seated longer than necessary.

"Monsieur Neuvillette?"

One of the attendants approached cautiously.

"...The performance has ended."

"...Yes."

Yet his gaze lingered upon the empty stage.

"It was beautiful."

And perhaps, for the first time in centuries—

He had a deeper understanding on why humans treasured art so much.

He returned for the next performance. And the one after that.

You noticed him, of course. 

It was hard not to. His presence carried weight, authority that hummed quietly rather than announced itself. He never applauded excessively, never smiled broadly. But you had performed long enough to recognize appreciation when you saw it.

The gleam in his eyes never wavered.

Your colleagues teased you relentlessly. “The Iudex again?” “You’ve caught quite the admirer.”

You laughed it off, but secretly, you felt giddy. There was something thrilling about knowing someone like him came to watch you—and no one else.

You found yourself searching for him whenever the curtains opened. And each time you spotted his familiar figure seated below—

Your heart leapt.

Not because he smiled–he rarely did, but because his eyes did.

Subtle though they were, you learned to recognize the soft gleam hidden within them. And somehow, that was enough.

Neuvillette himself was unaware of what he was doing. He simply wished to express his appreciation.

It was Furina’s idea that he should give you gifts if he loved your performances that much. 

“Fans do that to show their appreciation!” She explained. “It can be anything–anything at all! You can even write a letter to them.” 

And so, flowers began appearing in your dressing room. Alongside some exquisite teas, rare waters collected during his travels, jewelry, books, and sometimes peculiar trinkets that he personally found interesting.

And always—

A letter.

Your performance was remarkable.I found the second act particularly moving.Your voice reminds me of rainfall against stone—persistent, and sincere.

You read each one carefully, fingers lingering on the ink. They were so simple, yet so sincere. They warmed you in ways applause never could. 

Eventually, you wrote back. 

That was how you gained your first pen pal.

You guarded those letters fiercely, tucking them away where no one—not even the ever-watchful Steambird—could find them. 

They were too precious. Too personal. Something worth keeping secret.

Then came his birthday.

And with it: a performance dedicated entirely to him.

He had not expected it. Nor the overwhelming applause. Nor the sight of you smiling directly toward his seat.

And afterward, as rain softly fell outside Fontaine, he sat at his desk and wrote a letter unlike any before.

His pen hesitated.

Several drafts were discarded.

Until finally—

"Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner?"

To his surprise—

Your answer arrived the same night.

"I'd be delighted."

Neither of you realized how nervous the other truly was.

You spent hours choosing your attire.

Meanwhile, Neuvillette received advice from several Melusines.

And somehow—

Their suggestions only worsened his predicament.

"You should hold hands!"

"You should compliment their eyes!"

"You should bring sauce!"

"...Sauce?"

And when you finally met, you nearly burst into laughter.

Because for all his elegance and dignity,

Neuvillette looked genuinely nervous.

"Good evening," he greeted.

"Good evening."

A pause.

"...I hope this establishment is satisfactory."

"It is."

Another pause.

“Shall we?” He asked with a gentle smile, offering you his arm. 

The date surprised you both. Conversation flowed easily—about music, about Fontaine, about water and how it remembered everything it touched. You learned of his appreciation for rivers and rain; he learned of your love for stories and the way the stage felt like freedom.

He walked you home that night. No kiss marked the end of that evening, nor some grand confession. Just quiet conversations.

And the gentle promise of another meeting.

Yet both of you understood. Something had changed between you two.

Soon, letters became visits, visits became walks, walks became companionship.

And companionship blossomed into love.

Though hidden from the public eye, your relationship flourished quietly through private dinners, shared letters, long evenings discussing stories and emotions, and simply with each other’s presence. 

Sometimes, Neuvillette simply listened to you speak. Because listening to you had become one of his favorite things.

And in return—

You taught him many things. How to celebrate birthdays, how to enjoy festivals, how to recognize embarrassment, and perhaps most importantly, 

How to love.

Until the day everything shattered.

The case file appeared on Neuvillette's desk without warning.

You had been arrested for murder.

The victim was a junior opera singer. The evidence was overwhelming. A witness. Blood staining your costume. And the murder weapon—a trophy engraved with your name—embedded in the young woman's chest.

The Steambird erupted.

Rumors spread through Fontaine like wildfire.

Neuvillette was forbidden from seeing you before the trial. By law, only your legal counsel was permitted access. Though every instinct urged him otherwise, he honored protocol.

Because he had to.

And because somewhere within him lingered the hope—the desperate hope—that the truth would prevail.

When the day of the trial came, he scarcely recognized you. Gone was the radiant star of the Opera Epiclese. In your place stood someone exhausted. Sleepless.

Your once immaculate appearance had fallen into disarray. Dark circles shadowed your eyes. Your hands trembled faintly where they rested. You looked smaller somehow. Yet still, you stood tall.

And seeing you like that—

Seeing you standing where countless criminals had once stood—

Seeing you trying to stay brave despite knowing that deep down, you're scared–

Made his heart ache.

The proceedings continued. With all the witnesses, evidence, speculation, motive, jealousy, and ambition, every piece fell neatly into place.

Too neatly.

Even your attorney couldn't defend you even when they're the best of the best, it's as if everything is against your favor.

Beneath the judge's desk, Neuvillette's hand tightened.

"...What was the argument about?"

His voice echoed across the Opera Epiclese, addressing you to respond.

For the first time since entering the courtroom, you raised your head.

And your eyes found his.

"We argued over something important to me," is all you could say.

Murmurs erupted. Of course, the audience thought they understood. You could be talking about your fame, your spotlight, or your role.

But Neuvillette knew it had never been about any of those things.

It had been about him.

And in choosing silence, you had chosen to protect him.

He wanted to ask you to explain. 

To tell the court.

To tell the truth.

But the Chief Justice of Fontaine could not ask such things. So he remained silent.

And finally, the Oratrice rendered its verdict.

Guilty.

It was a word Neuvillette had spoken countless times throughout his life.

Measured.

Impartial.

Absolute.

But when it was spoken to you—

It sounded so, so, so wrong.

As though something deep within Fontaine itself had fallen out of harmony. Yet even then, you did not cry.

You merely lowered your head. 

And when the guards approached, you offered a perfect bow. The same bow with which you had once concluded your performances.

Neuvillette remained seated, not because he wished to, but because duty demanded it.

Only Furina noticed the way his fingers dug into the armrest, and the slight tremble hidden beneath his composure.

You were transferred to a temporary holding cell within the Palais Mermonia, where you would remain until your departure for the Fortress of Meropide.

Neuvillette personally ensured that you would be treated with dignity with no unnecessary cruelty, no mistreatment, and no indignity beyond the sentence itself.

It was the only mercy he could still offer.

Your only request was paper and ink.

And sometime during the night, you wrote a single letter. It was short.

The guards discovered it the next morning.

There are many things I fear.  But I fear that one day, you will stop visiting the Opera.

I fear that you will no longer taste the waters of Fontaine and tell me what stories they carry.

And most of all—

I fear that you will forget the songs I sang for you.

So please… 

Remember me kindly. Not as I am now. But as I was when I stood beneath the lights and sang for you.

No one knew who you were addressing, all except Neuvillette himself. 

And that same morning–

You were gone.

No signs of struggle.

No broken locks.

No blood.

No escape route.

Only an empty cell.

Your belongings remained untouched.

And upon the stone floor lingered a strange scent that’s medical and foreign. 

It faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Neuvillette arrived shortly thereafter. He stood silently in the doorway, listening to the guards who nervously explained their patrol routes and procedures, swearing their innocence.

Slowly, he stepped inside. 

Something had disturbed the place.

Not enough to leave a trace, but enough for Neuvillette to understand that something had happened that led you to disappear.

Something foreign.

Something that did not belong to Fontaine.

"Seal this area," he said quietly. "No one is to speak of this."

And so the search began.

Weeks passed. Nothing.

Months. Nothing.

Your home remained untouched, except for one peculiar detail.

Every letter Neuvillette had ever written to you had vanished.

He kept that fact to himself.

The Steambird published theories daily.

You could’ve somehow escaped with your connections, you could’ve ran for a bit and committed suicide somewhere where no one could find you, you could’ve had an accomplice—or a secret lover. 

Yet none could explain why your trail simply ended.

Meanwhile, strange rumors surfaced in the darker corners of Fontaine. Of foreign researchers requesting unusual access to Meropide, of Fatui diplomats asking peculiar questions about performers, of an elegant man with unsettling eyes showing interest in  a certain singer. 

Until eventually, such reports disappeared. Informants withdrew their statements, records were amended, witnesses suddenly remembered nothing. Only one name surfaced more than once.

Always redacted.

Always followed by silence.

But the pattern was unmistakable. 

The Fatui were involved.

Yet patterns alone were not evidence.

And without evidence—

The Chief Justice of Fontaine could do nothing.

So Fontaine moved on. Your name disappeared from programs, your roles were recast, the case was deemed solved, and the Oratrice remained infallible.

Only Neuvillette remembered. 

He attended the Opera Epiclese one final time.

A new performer sang your aria.

Technically flawless. And utterly empty.

He never returned.

Years passed. New stars rose, new songs and performances filled the stage, yet none could compare to the star he had admired, or the person he had quietly loved.

And every week, without fail, Neuvillette wrote you a letter. He sealed each one carefully, addressing them nowhere.

The rain has persisted today.

Lady Furina insisted I take tea with her.

You would’ve loved the traveler and their companion. 

I still hear your voice in places where there should only be silence.

They piled upon his desk. 

Unread.

Unanswered.

And sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, he would find himself turning at the sound of imagined footsteps.

Only to find the room empty.

And beyond the windows of the Palais Mermonia—

The rain continued to fall.

As though Fontaine itself mourned with him.

And somewhere beyond the reach of judgment, beyond the grasp of memory and time—

You lived again.

Unaware that a man who had never once begged for anything in his long existence now prayed to the silence you had left behind.

Not for justice.

Not even for forgiveness.

But for one more letter.

It didn’t take long before he became your frequent customer. His order is always a hearty meal accompanied by alcohol, often asking for seconds.

Each time he visits, he is joyous as ever, greeting the customers before sitting down on the stool in front of the counter where he can watch you prepare meals. He talks about his daily errands, how much work there is to do, how he had stopped another conflict between two particular neighbors, and how kids are getting bigger and bigger each day.

Varka is beloved by everyone in the neighborhood.

The grandmothers often stuff homemade snacks into his hands, while children excitedly run over to him whenever he passes by.

Whenever there is trouble, everyone’s first thought is always the same.

“Call Varka.”

Stray cats stuck on trees? Call Varka.

A couple having an argument? Call Varka.

Festival preparations? Call Varka.

Carrying heavy groceries? Call Varka.

Varka always responds with a cheerful smile.

“Leave it to me!”

Sometimes, while eating, his phone rings over and over again.

Despite sighing dramatically, he never once refuses.

“Ah, duty calls!”

You quickly come to realize that the community leader practically works twenty-four hours a day.  

Despite how busy he is, he never misses a visit to the restaurant.

Sometimes he arrives with dirt on his clothes after helping someone push their car all the way to the nearest gas station. 

Sometimes with scratches after rescuing a cat.

Once, he came drenched in rain after helping an elderly resident whose roof had begun leaking.

And every single time, he greets you with the same smile.

“Evening! Smells wonderful in here!”

It becomes a habit for you to prepare his favorite dishes whenever he drops by.

To your surprise, Varka remembers your favorite snacks too.

Whenever he discovers a new addition to the local bakery or receives gifts from the neighborhood grandmothers, he often shares them with you.

“Can't let all these sweets go to waste, right?”

The regular customers often tease the two of you.

“Look at that, Varka's already making himself at home.”

“You youngsters are cute.”

“Maybe we'll hear wedding bells before long!”

Varka merely laughs loudly while you become embarrassed. 

“Whoa there, let’s not get hasty!” He replied. 

However, as months pass, you begin noticing something strange.

Although Varka knows everyone…

Nobody seems to know much about him.

People ask about his health in passing, but conversations quickly return to their own problems.

Everyone depends on him, praises him, and loves him.

Yet even so, nobody ever asks what he wants, how his day went, or whether he was tired.

One night, when business was slow, you find Varka sitting alone at the counter.

The usual smile on his face is absent.

Instead, he quietly stares into his untouched drink.

“Long day?” you ask.

He chuckles.

“Long life, more like.”

For once, he doesn't talk about the neighborhood.

He doesn't talk about work.

He doesn't talk about anyone else.

He simply watches you cook.

After a long silence, he softly says:

“Funny, isn't it?”

“I've lived here for decades, watched kids grow up, helped people get married, seen neighbors become grandparents. But when I come home…”

He stays silent for a moment. “It's always quiet.”

He laughs afterward, as though trying to brush away his own words.

“Haha! Listen to me sounding all gloomy. Guess even I get sentimental.”

You can't help but feel that, despite all the laughter surrounding him…

Varka has been lonely for a very, very long time.

You talk about it with your grandfather after helping him get to bed, only for your grandfather to let out a huff.

“Ah, that rascal? He has always been alone. Even back when I first met him, he was already running around helping everyone. I used to tell him to slow down and enjoy his youth. Did he listen?” 

Your grandfather snorts, before continuing, “of course not.”

“Always saying things like, ‘Someone's got to do it!’” He clicks his tongue at the thought. “Brat nearly worked himself into the grave more times than I can count.”

Curious, you ask if Varka has any family.

Your grandfather becomes unusually quiet.

“Not anymore. Lost his parents at a young age. And he never married or found anyone special either. All because he was too busy. Busy helping this neighborhood and everyone else. Before he knew it, the years had passed.”

Your grandfather sighs.

“The fool practically raised half the kids around here. He fixed roofs, settled arguments, carried groceries, stayed up all night during storms checking on people, never asked for anything in return, and somehow…”

He crosses his arms.

“That idiot became everyone's family. Except nobody ever realized he didn't have one of his own.”

You quietly recall how Varka always talks about everyone else's lives.

But never his own.

“Doesn't he have close friends?” You ask.

“Hm.” Your grandfather nodded. “Plenty. But friendship's a funny thing.”

“People come and go. Some move away. Some get busy with life. Others…”

Your grandfather glances out the window.

“Well… Life happens.”

He hesitated for a moment. “But every evening, rain or shine… That rascal always came here. Sat right by the stool in front of the counter, ordered enough food for three people,  talked about work, and made me listen to his stories before leaving.” 

Your grandfather chuckles softly.

“Truth be told, I think this old restaurant was his refuge. A place where nobody needed him to be some hero and leader he’s expected to be.” 

He then looks at you knowingly.

“And you know… Ever since you came back… He's smiling differently. That rascal used to come and eat before leaving. Now? I can see him lingering, talking more, laughing louder. And sometimes I catch him staring into the kitchen with the strangest look I've ever seen.”

He laughs. “Hah… Hopeless fool.”

Your grandfather settles himself under the blankets.

When you turned off the lights, he spoke up once again, this time in a serious tone. 

“Take good care of him.” 

You paused, staying still to listen. 

The old man looks up at the ceiling, a thoughtful look plastered on his face. “People like Varka… They'll spend their whole lives taking care of others. But they don't know how to ask for someone to take care of them.”

After a moment, your grandfather mutters one final thing.

“He's a good man. Far too good.”

“...And good people deserve a place to feel at peace.”

After that night, you begin paying more attention to Varka.

Just as he notices when your ingredients are running low or when you've had a long day, you begin noticing the little things about him.

The way he stretches his shoulders whenever he thinks no one is looking, the way he sometimes falls asleep sitting upright at the counter after finishing his meal, and the way he often stares outside the window with a distant look before quickly smiling once more whenever someone greets him.

Before long, setting aside a portion for Varka becomes second nature.

“You're late today,” you would tell him.

And he would laugh. “Sorry, sorry! Ms. Margaret’s cat ended up on the roof again.”

Or perhaps: “The neighborhood kids challenged me to a soccer match. Can you believe they actually beat me?”

Or: “Old Mr. Wagner insisted I help him fix his garden. Three hours later, I was still pulling weeds.”

Slowly, his stories stop revolving around problems.

He starts telling you about the little things.

A funny joke one of the children told him.

The flowers are blooming in the park.

His favorite songs are playing on the radio.

Memories of his travels.

The festivals he attended in his youth.

Even embarrassing stories that make you laugh until your stomach hurts.

“Don't you dare tell anyone I lost an arm wrestling match to Klee.” He said, though it’s clear he was just being easy on the cheery kid. 

Without either of you noticing, the restaurant becomes part of his daily routine.

If he misses a day, the grandmothers ask where he is.

If he arrives late, you unconsciously glance at the door every few minutes.

And every evening, Varka takes his usual seat in front of the counter.

“Evening.”

“Welcome back.”

The regular customers eventually stop saying that Varka is visiting your restaurant.

Instead, they say teasingly: “Ah, Varka's home.”

One rainy evening, as you started cleaning up, you found him sleeping on the counter.

His meal had gone cold.

Concerned, you gently wake him.

“Varka?”

He slowly opens his eyes.

“…Ah, sorry. Guess I was more tired than I thought.” 

Instead of getting up immediately like usual, he remains seated, quiet and looking strangely vulnerable.

Then, with a sheepish smile, he admits: “I think this might be my favorite place.”

You stare at him in surprise, and he continues, “whenever I walk through those doors… I feel like I can finally stop. I don't have to be the community leader who solves everyone's problems. I can just… eat, relax, and enjoy myself.”

He chuckles.

“Maybe I've gotten spoiled.”

He looks at you, his usual grin returning. “You spoil me too much.”

But despite his teasing tone, you can tell he means every word.

Eventually, even the neighborhood begins to notice.

Varka smiles more, and he actually takes days off, stops skipping meals, spends less time worrying about everyone else, and more time enjoying himself.

The grandmothers are delighted.

“He's finally putting on some weight!”

“He looks younger!”

“Look at those rosy cheeks!”

Some even whisper to you with knowing smiles. “He’s happier when he visits you,” as if he went to your grandfather’s restaurant for more than just the food. 

“He deserves happiness too.”

One day, while looking through your grandfather’s calendar, you discover something surprising.

Varka's birthday is approaching.

You excitedly ask him what his plans are when he comes to visit. 

He blinks, swallowing his food.

“Plans?”

“Ah…Nothing, I suppose. I'll probably just work.”

You nearly drop the ladle in your hands.

“Work?!”

Varka laughs.

“Birthdays aren't really a big deal. Besides, everyone's busy with their own lives. No need to make a fuss over a man like me.” He says it so casually.

As though he genuinely expects nothing, as though he's grown used to spending that day alone.

Your heart aches at the thought.

So, together with your sickly grandfather and the regular customers, you secretly begin preparing.

The grandmothers bake desserts, the children draw cards, a few neighbors volunteer to handle the decorations, and even the neighborhood butcher donates his best meat.

Everyone was working together.

Because for years… Varka has celebrated everyone else's joys.

And now… It is finally their turn to celebrate his joy.

On the day itself, Varka was dumbfounded by the fact that not a single person in the neighborhood asked him any errands to help them with. The grandmothers’ pipes were doing well, the children were busy with homework (on a weekend????), and even the neighbors who usually argue are suddenly getting along well. 

It was only until late at night you called for him for an emergency when he quickly ran.

When he slides open the door to your restaurant, he freezes.

“SURPRISE!”

The entire restaurant erupts with cheers.

Balloons, streamers, mountains of food were all over the restaurant as elderly residents, children and families had all gathered together. 

All were the people he has helped throughout the years.

Some had traveled from other districts and even countries just to see him and celebrate his birthday. 

Everyone is smiling.

Everyone is laughing.

Everyone is here.

Varka stands motionless.

Completely stunned.

“W-What… What's all this?”

Little Klee runs over and hugs his leg.

“Happy birthday, Mister Varka!”

Ms. Margaret wipes tears from her eyes.

“It's about time we spoiled you for once.”

Old Mr. Wagner laughs. “No running any errands today!”

The children hand him handmade cards.

The grandmothers fusses over whether he's eating enough.

And your grandfather, who’s sitting on a wheelchair with his doctor behind him, grins.

“Brat. Thought we'd forgotten your birthday?”

Varka's eyes slowly widen.

Before anyone can react…

The great and mighty Varka quickly turned away from the crowd, hurriedly wiping his eyes.

He was tearing up. 

He then turned back to them and laughed, though there was a hint of shakiness in it.  

“Thank you…”

“Thank you, everyone.”

And for the first time in years…

Varka celebrates his birthday not as the community leader that the whole neighborhood relies on, but simply as Varka.

Surrounded by people who love him.

Long after the party ends and everyone returns home, Varka stays behind.

Together, the two of you clean the restaurant.

The room is quiet.

Warm.

Peaceful.

Looking at the leftover decorations, he chuckles.

“You really got me good. I was planning to just celebrate on my own and drink to my heart’s content.”

You smile.

“Nobody forgot, just so you know.” You spoke with a warm smile. “Everyone really wanted to celebrate with you.”

Varka gazes around the diner. He looked at the counter, the stools, the kitchen, the little wish board hanging on the wall–

And finally…

At you.

His eyes soften. So incredibly soft.

“You know…”

“I've spent so much of my life making sure others have somewhere to be. But somewhere along the way…”

He smiles, warmth radiating out of him.

“I found my own place too.”

Before leaving that night, Varka walks over to the restaurant’s wish board, something your grandmother had put back when your grandfather first opened the restaurant–a tradition for every customer to at least write one wish.  

Picking up a pen, he thinks for a moment.

Then, with a gentle smile, he writes:

"I wish to spend the rest of my days surrounded by those I love."

On the upper corner of the paper, he draws a small smiling sun.

And from that day onward, whenever he walks through the doors of the old diner, he always says the same thing.

“I'm back.”

To which you always answer:

“Welcome back, Varka!”

If there's one thing particular about Jean that you notice, it was the fact that she always comes to the restaurant in her uniform. 

She comes exactly at 20:00 after work, looking exhausted as ever as she settles down in the corner of the restaurant by the window and opens her laptop to work some more.

Given your experience from the city, you knew what it was like to be in her shoes.

So when you came to get her order, you weren't surprised to be greeted by her dozing state.

And it has become a familiar sight since then.

Her order was always the same thing: pizza paired with coffee; something easy to eat while working.

The sounds of her typing on her keyboard can be heard every time she comes, to the point where it starts to become weird if you don't hear it at night.

Sometimes, she stays until closing time.

And even then, she would only leave after answering one last email.

"Miss Jean, we're closing soon." You spoke with a polite smile. 

"Ah. My apologies." She spoke, flustered. "I'll just finish this report and be on my way."

There were times when she accidentally fell asleep with her glasses still on, or when she forgot to touch her food until it had already gone cold.

Whenever you reminded her, she would simply smile apologetically.

"Sorry. I got carried away… Again."

Despite how busy she always was, Jean never once failed to thank you for every meal.

"Thank you. It was delicious as always."

And she always smiled the most whenever she said those words.

One night, you heard the sounds of soft sneezes and sniffles.

When you checked on Jean, it was clear that she was sick.

To your dismay, when you told her to take a break from work and rest tomorrow, she simply shook her head in response.

"Thank you for your concern, but… I can't afford to call in sick. I have an important meeting tomorrow that I cannot miss.” She said softly, trying to smile reassuringly towards you before sneezing once again.

When you came back once more with her order, she was surprised to see a warm bowl of cream stew on the side.

"It's on the house," you explained softly, "if you can't be absent tomorrow, at least try to take care of yourself."

Her eyes widened in surprise. Before she could protest and insist on paying, you quickly left her on her own to tend to other customers.

She didn't touch her laptop after that.

Instead, she quietly stared at the cream stew.

Her expression softened.

And for a brief moment…

You thought she looked like she was about to cry.

She didn't come to the restaurant the next day.

But on the day after, she returned, not as sick as before.

When you took her order, she decided to order an additional meal.

"I'd also like some cream stew on the side, if that's alright."

Over time, you've grown to care about the overworked businesswoman.

As you continue to observe her, you begin to realize that beneath all the work she's been doing every time she visits, there's always something behind her eyes that just made you know that this was something beyond work.

When you asked Varka about Jean, he could only sigh in response.

"Her parents passed away back when she had just turned twenty-one, leaving her to take care of her sister, Barbara, who was still young at the time." He said with a serious look.

"Jean eventually got hired to a company that offered a high pay, enough to help provide for Barbara's school. Though… not a lot of people liked that company, as it was known for often overworking its employees."

"I even tried to convince Jean to try out a different company, but she insisted the one she's in had the best benefits for Barbara and didn't want to risk losing it."

Your heart sank hearing her story. "...Where's Barbara now?"

"Oh, she's second year in college already."

Varka sighed. "But… it's like the two of them weren't as close as they used to be. Not when Jean is always on her laptop the whole time and never having the time to go to any of Barbara's school events."

You began to understand the businesswoman more after that.

One evening, while cleaning up empty plates, you suddenly asked out of curiosity:

"Miss Jean… Do you really enjoy that cream stew I made?"

Jean paused, her fingers froze above her keyboard.

For a moment, the sounds of typing stopped. 

And after a long silence…

She smiled. A sad kind.

"Sorry if it’s weird.. I-It’s just… it reminded me a lot of my little sister, Barbara, back when she was little."

She began to reminisce a little, a longing but pained look on her face. “Our mom would make cream stew for me whenever I’m sick, and she’d proudly stay by her mom’s side and bring me bowls without fail, wanting to see me feel better."

Jean let out a small laugh.

“I always finish them even when I’m already full, because she looked so happy."

Her smile gradually weakened.

"I don't think I've had cream stew since then… Not since our parents died."

“She probably doesn't even remember anymore."

You began to regret asking her that question, unaware of how much such dish meant to her. 

As if reading your mind, she smiled sadly. “Thank you for asking though. I.. I guess I needed to get that out of my chest.” She said reassuringly. 

Eventually, Jean began coming to the restaurant without opening her laptop immediately.

Sometimes she actually ate while her food was still warm.

Sometimes she stayed simply to talk.

And one evening, she quietly asked:

"Do you think… It's too late?"

When you stopped cleaning the stove for a moment to look at her, she quickly clarified her question.

"...Do you think it’s… too late for me to fix things? With her?"

You shook your head, already knowing what she meant.

"No."

"It’s never too late to fix things. Not if both people still care." You said softly. “Believe me. I learned that the hard way.” 

A few weeks later, Jean didn't show up.

Nor the day after.

Nor the day after that.

You found yourself glancing at the door every evening, wondering if she was drowning in work.

Until nearly a week later.

The familiar bell rang.

"Welcome—"

You froze.

Jean stood there.

Looking happier than you had ever seen her.

Beside her stood a younger woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

"Good afternoon!" The younger woman greeted cheerfully, waving at you.

"You must be the one my sister always talks about!"

Jean actually looked embarrassed.

"Barbara… Must you say that?"

"But it's true!" Barbara giggled softly.

That night, the two sisters stayed until closing.

No laptops, no reports, no emails.

Just laughter and two cream stews.

Turns out, Jean had quit her job and went to a company that treats their employees better and had a much better benefit for her and her sister, giving her more time to finally make up the lost time with her sister. 

From then on, Jean no longer came every day.

Whenever she does visit, she always has stories to tell. Whether it was about movie nights with Barbara, about finally attending one of her performances, about embarrassing herself trying to bake, about weekend shopping trips, about the little moments she had thought she had lost forever.

And every time she spoke of her sister… Her eyes shone.

One evening, after finishing her meal, Jean lingered by the counter instead of immediately leaving.

She looked oddly nervous.

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Jean hesitated for a moment.

"...Would you be willing to teach me how to cook cream stew? Barbara and I have been trying, but we can never quite recreate the taste."

She smiled sheepishly.

"And I thought… Perhaps I could learn from the expert."

You were quick to say yes. 

So on the weekend, when the restaurant was quieter than usual, Jean came by wearing an apron instead of her work uniform.

It was such an unusual sight that you almost didn't recognize her.

"Is something wrong?" She asked.

"N-No… It's just strange seeing you without your laptop." You said with a sheepish smile. 

Jean laughed softly.

"I left it at home. Barbara made sure of that."

And so the two of you spent the afternoon together in the kitchen.

You taught her how to prepare the vegetables, how long to simmer the broth, and the importance of patience.

Though admittedly… Jean wasn't exactly gifted in the culinary arts.

"Miss Jean, that’s milk, not cream."

"Ah… Right. My apologies."

Despite her mistakes, Jean looked genuinely happy. Happier than you had ever seen her during those long nights spent working.

Every now and then, she'd excitedly ask questions or proudly present her progress to you.

And before you knew it… The afternoon had slipped away.

"How does it taste?" Jean asked nervously.

You took a spoonful.

And smiled.

"Not bad."

Jean blinked.

"Not bad? That's all?"

You laughed.

"For your first attempt, it's excellent."

Jean smiled.

A bright, genuine smile.

One that made her look years younger.

"Thank goodness."

"Barbara will be happy.

And so time flew by as you watched the businesswoman become happier and healthier. 

One day during her visit, Jean smiled softly towards you.

"Barbara really liked the cream stew I made yesterday. I’m getting better thanks to you."

She then sheepishly added, “It's still not as good as yours, though."

She paused for a moment, as though she had something important she wanted to say.

"I've been meaning to thank you."

She said quietly.

"Not just for the meals. Or for taking care of me when I was sick."

Jean lowered her gaze slightly.

"I thought I had already failed as a sister. That perhaps… Barbara and I had simply grown too far apart."

A small smile appeared on her face.

"But because of you… I remembered the things that mattered, and Ww found our way back to each other."

She let out a soft laugh.

"Barbara says I've become less quiet lately. Though I'm not entirely sure that's a compliment."

Despite her words, she looked happier than ever.

"Still… Thank you. Truly. I hope your grandfather gets better soon as well."

One evening, before leaving, Jean stopped in front of the wishing board.

Looking thoughtful, she picked up a pen.

Then, with a gentle smile, she wrote:

"I want to be a better sister."

When she finished, she looked at the board for a while.

Before quietly adding:

"And perhaps…"

"A better version of myself as well."

Though she never wrote those words down.

Because deep down, you had already helped her do that.

Unlike Jean and Varka, Hat Guy had quite an entrance.

It happened on one rainy day when the door suddenly slid open harshly, the bell ringing rather in a wrong and hurried way.

When you check on the newcomer, you certainly didn't expect to see a foreign young-looking man with a large hat that's dripping rainwater on the floor, holding a permanent scowl on his face as he quietly curses at the unfortunate weather.

You watched carefully as he sat down on the very end of the counter seat with a huff, removing his wet hat, unsure if he was the type to shout at poor employees.

Before you could greet him and ask for his order, he beat you to it, scanning over the menu pasted on the counter.

"I'll get the most bitter tea you have with a cold cut platter meal."

As you quickly get started on preparing his meal, you try to ignore his quiet curses to himself.

"Great… First my men lost that cursed doctor, then it started raining, and now I'm stuck in this stupid town."

So much for first impressions, am I right?

Based on his constant complaints that he "kept to himself," you managed to put two and two together that Hat Guy happened to pass by the neighborhood while trying to find a doctor for reasons only your ancestors can tell, but due to the heavy rain, he had to take a detour and come to your restaurant.

Despite his harsh demeanor, he wasn't exactly harsh to you in a way one would expect an entitled customer to be.

If you could guess, you'd assume he's actually just a reasonable man with a sour attitude.

When you served his order, he was already quiet, taking light bites as he continued to put on a nasty look on his face.

He didn't leave any more comments when he was finished either, standing up from his stool and grabbing his now dry hat as he left the bill on the counter, ready to go back to whatever he was doing since the rain finally stopped.

You thought that would've been the last time you'd see the foreigner.

But then he came back the day after tomorrow.

This time, he didn't look as angry and mean as before as he went to his previous spot, scanning the menu once more without another word.

"I'll get the most bitter tea you have and the flaming red bolognese."

It slowly became a routine.

Every twice a week, he comes back to your restaurant ordering different meals with the same bitter drink.

Each time, you felt like you're walking on eggshells due to remembering his nasty attitude during your first encounter, not wanting to deal with any hassling conflicts with any customers as it's the last thing you needed.

Yet despite all his complaints, he somehow never had anything bad to say about your cooking.

Not that he'd ever compliment it.

"The tea's acceptable."

"This one's edible."

"You didn't burn the noodles today."

Which, according to your grandfather, was probably the closest thing to praise coming from someone like him.

Eventually, you stopped being nervous around him.

And perhaps he noticed.

Because he stopped glaring at you whenever you approached his seat.

Sometimes, he'd even push his empty plate forward before you could ask.

"Same drink."

"And surprise me with the meal."

"I don't care."

Which was strange.

Because for someone who kept to himself so much… He had somehow entrusted his meals entirely to you.

Though he would deny such a thing if anyone pointed it out.

"Don't misunderstand. I'm just too lazy to read the menu."

And yet, every dish you recommended was always finished completely.

One evening, when you apologized for making him wait longer than usual due to the amount of customers, Hat Guy merely scoffed.

"What are you apologizing for? I'm not in a hurry."

He paused.

"...Besides, I was planning on staying a while."

Somehow, hearing those words made your heart skip a beat.

Not that you'd ever admit that.

What really made you surprised was the time when one of the children accidentally bumped into Hat Guy while playing around, and just when you thought the poor kid was about to get one hell of a lecture and berating comment, you were instead surprised to see Hat Guy checking up on the kid and shooing him away, before going back to his meal as if nothing happened.

Huh, maybe he really is just a reasonable man with a sour attitude.

Out of habit, you continue to observe your foreign customer while handling your restaurant around.

Though he often claims that he simply happened to be passing through, it somehow becomes a routine for him to visit every twice a week.

He never orders the same meal twice. But his drink always remains the same.

Sometimes he brings a newspaper.

Sometimes he sits in complete silence.

And sometimes, when there aren't many customers around, he quietly listens to the conversations of the elderly residents while pretending not to.

Oddly enough, he no longer scans the menu and actually knows all your meals by heart.

Even stranger, he always visits during the busiest hours despite how much he complains about noisy places.

He never joins any conversations, but he never leaves early either.

In fact, you've noticed that after finishing his meals, he often stays behind with his tea.

Watching the rain outside.

Listening to the grandmothers gossip.

Listening to the children giggling and playing around.

Listening to you talk with the regular customers.

And every now and then, you catch him looking at you.

Only for him to immediately avert his eyes with a click of his tongue.

"...Watch where you're walking."

"You'll trip."

Or—

"The soup's boiling over."

Or—

"You missed a spot."

He always notices.

Somehow, he notices everything.

Huh.

Maybe he really is just a reasonable man with a sour attitude.

One particularly quiet evening, you accidentally cut your finger while preparing ingredients.

Before you could even react, Hat Guy was already standing up, leaning towards the counter to check up on you. 

"Idiot."

His voice was sharper than usual. "How are you this careless?"

You blinked in surprise.

"...Hat Guy?"

He looked equally surprised himself, as if he hadn't realized he had gotten up.

"...Tch."

"You were getting blood everywhere, you might mess up my order."

Despite his complaints, he stayed beside you until the bandage was wrapped properly.

Only then did he return to his seat, ears slightly red as he hides his face with his hat.

"...Don't misunderstand. It would've been annoying if you got sick."

You couldn't stop smiling to yourself for the rest of the evening.

Before long, the regulars become used to his presence.

Though nobody knew his name, the children eventually started calling him "Hat Guy."

Much to his annoyance.

"I'm not answering to that."

"Good evening, Mister Hat Guy!"

"...Brats."

And yet for some reason, he always carries little candies in his pockets, and the neighborhood cats seem to adore him for some reason.

"Don't get the wrong idea. I just happened to have leftovers." He said, crossing his arms when he realized you were watching him after you took out the trash. 

Huh.

Maybe he really is just a reasonable man with a sour attitude.

One afternoon, while helping one of the regular customers cross the road from the restaurant, you noticed Miss Nahida sitting outside her home.

The oldest resident of the neighborhood who used to be a very beloved teacher in the school that’s located in the neighborhood.

Though age had weakened her body and memory, she remained beloved by everyone. Even your grandfather, who always has something to say about people, had nothing but respect for the elderly woman.

Some days she remembered your name.

Other days she mistook you for one of her old students.

Without fail, she always remembered to smile.

"Good afternoon, dear."

"Have you seen my grandson?"

You blinked.

"Your grandson?"

"Kuni."

She smiled warmly.

"Such a sweet boy. He's been away for work. But he promised to visit me soon."

"He promised."

Varka, who happened to be nearby, simply sighed.

And when Nahida wasn't listening anymore, he quietly explained.

"That promise was made years ago. He left after high school and never looked back."

Your heart sank.

According to Varka, Nahida had found an abandoned baby left outside her doorstep decades ago.

Nobody knew who the parents were, and nobody ever came looking for him. 

So she simply brought the child inside and raised him herself.

"His name's Kunikuzushi."

Varka smiled softly.

"Though she always called him Kuni. Based on what the grannies told me, he had always looked up to her more than anything. But then he grew up. Said he wanted something bigger than this little neighborhood. 

Varka then sighed. “And one day, he left. Nobody knows what he does, and nobody's heard from him since. Not even Miss Nahida. I remember granny telling me about how devastating it was to see their favorite teacher looking so hopeful yet sad when each year flew by without him visiting."

For some reason, your thoughts immediately drifted towards Hat Guy. Though you quickly dismissed the idea.

Surely not.

Right?

Yet the coincidence kept bothering you, especially when you often see him either lingering or staring in the direction of Miss Nahida’s home. 

And one evening, after watching Hat Guy stare absentmindedly out the window towards Miss Nahida's house, you finally asked.

"Do you know Miss Nahida?"

The spoon in his hand stopped.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then—

"...Who?"

It was far too quick, far too rehearsed. He didn’t even look you in the eyes.

And that’s when you had your answer.

After that, you started noticing strange things.

Every morning, someone leaves fresh flowers by Nahida's doorstep, someone fixes the broken fence before Varka could, and someone leaves groceries outside whenever she forgets to buy them.

And not one single person knows who did it.

Except one rainy morning, when you accidentally caught Hat Guy holding grocery bags outside her house.

Upon seeing you, he clicked his tongue.

"Don't misunderstand. I just happened to be passing by."

You raised an eyebrow, unsure what to think. "Passing by with groceries?"

"...Shut up."

Despite all that, he never bothered to knock nor call her outside. 

And as the months passed, his questions slowly became stranger.

"...Tell me." He hesitated for a moment, holding his tea and blowing the steam off. 

"If someone wasted years of their life doing stupid things… Would it even matter if they came back?"

Another time, he quietly asked: "What if they've done things they can never take back?"

And another time: "What if they're afraid?" 

And every time, you always answer each question reassuringly, knowing that he wasn’t talking about someone else.

Then one day, you found yourself asking Hat Guy a question when he came to visit.

"Why won't you talk to her?"

His expression darkened.

Instead of denying yet again about not knowing who you’re talking about, he dropped the act. "...What's the point? She forgets everything."

"Maybe.” You replied softly. “But she remembers waiting for you."

For the first time since you've met him…

He said nothing.

He simply stared into his tea, then quietly paid the bill and left.

And for nearly two weeks…

He never returned.

You honestly thought that would be the last time you would see him.

Until one evening, the bell rang.

And there he was.

Though something about him seemed different. Quieter. Softer. As though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

After finishing his meal, he suddenly spoke.

"...She remembered."

When you look up at him in surprise, he continues speaking. "Not everything though, but she remembered me."

He laughed weakly.

"...Stupid old woman. She asked why I took so long. Then she forgot and asked who I was.” 

Despite the insults, you noticed how suspiciously red his eyes were.

"Did you answer her?"

"...Yeah. I did."

After that night, Hat Guy began visiting more frequently. He looked relaxed a little more. Though his questions never seemed to stop.

"...If someone wanted to leave everything behind to start over… Would running away make them a coward?"

You thought about it for a moment.

Then smiled.

"Not if they're running towards a better future."

He stared at you. 

"...I see."

Sure enough, after finishing his meal, he stood up. Putting the money on the counter, he adjusted his hat.

Then, with a strange look in his eyes, he quietly said:

"Thanks.. for everything.”

And then he left.

You never saw him again after that. 

Strangely enough, Miss Nahida smiles more these days.

"Kuni visited me the other day. He was such a good boy, he asked if I wanted to go with him to a far away place for a fresh start.” She said to you one day. 

Your eyes widen in surprise. “And did you say yes, Miss Nahida?” You asked. 

She shook her head, laughing softly. “No, of course not. I’m too old to travel, and I think it’ll do him good to go out there without worrying about me. But he did promise he'll come back again when the time comes."

And though sometimes she forgets his name, the conversation, and even his identity, 

She never forgets that he came home.

And one evening, while cleaning the restaurant after closing time, you noticed a new wish hanging on the board.

You don't recall seeing any customers putting it there.

Yet the elegant handwriting gave you an inkling feeling that you already know who it came from. . 

Written in small, neat letters were the words:

"Thank you for everything."

No name.

No explanation.

But you understood, a sad smile forming on your face.

Wherever Hat Guy had gone—

You could only hope that, this time…

He was finally running towards happiness.

The first person you met when you first arrived at the neighborhood is none other than your grandfather's physician.

You had only just finished listening to your grandfather's instructions on how to manage his restaurant when the bell above the restaurant door chimed.

Turning around, you expected a customer.

Instead, a tall man dressed in a doctor's uniform stepped inside with a smile on his face.

"Good morning." He greeted, his voice gentle, calm and pleasant to listen to. "I'm here for your check-up."

Before you could even react, your grandfather groaned from the kitchen.

"You’re here already?"

The doctor chuckled. "Goodness, what a cruel thing to say to your physician."

"Bah. You're only here to nag me."

Nonetheless, the doctor smiled more. "Because you refuse to listen."

As you listen to their conversation, the two of them sounded less like doctor and patient, and more like old friends.

That was your first impression of Doctor Baizhu.

To the neighborhood, Baizhu is a wonderful doctor who has the most effective medicine there is, with the price of having to suffer from the extreme bitterness of said medicine. To your grandfather, he's a nuisance who constantly reminded him to rest and not work his bum off to run the restaurant.To the children, he was the terrifying man responsible for making them drink awful syrup. Though they still adored him, finding him “cool” for having a snake in his home. To the elderly residents, he was the kind young doctor who patiently listened to their complaints even when they repeated the same stories over and over again. To the shopkeepers, he was someone who always remembered to ask how their families were doing.

To everyone else…

Doctor Baizhu was simply Doctor Baizhu.

Someone reliable, kind, and always seemed to have a smile on his face.

Knowing how stubborn your grandfather is during his morning check-ups, you couldn't help but feel bad for the doctor and offer Baizhu to eat at the restaurant every time he checks up on your grandfather, to which the doctor always appreciated and kindly accepted your offer.

"Are you certain?" He asks. 

You nodded reassuringly. "Of course! It’s the least I can do as thanks for putting up with the old man."

At that, he laughed softly. "Then I shall gratefully accept."

He then became some of the customers that come in the morning given that's the time he visits your grandfather, so he got to experience the peaceful atmosphere of the restaurant that only occurs at this hour.

The sunlight filtering through the windows, the quiet chatter of regular customers, the smell of freshly baked bread, and the sound of dishes clinking together was peaceful and comfortable, enough to make any tension come off.

And in your opinion, Doctor Baizhu fit perfectly into that atmosphere.

His order is usually a crab, ham, and veggie bake with tea on the side, and he prefers sitting by the wall near your kitchen where he has alone time and can call you when he needs something.

He always thanked you whenever you brought his food without fail.

"Thank you. This smells wonderful."

Even if it was something simple as merely refilling his tea, you couldn’t help but feel something warm in your stomach from his gratitude. 

Doctor Baizhu always made people feel appreciated.

Most of the customers who came by would notice him and greet him, to which he greeted back with a polite smile on his face, often asking them about their well-being and whether they had taken care of themselves better despite the fact that some of them were no longer under his care.

"Good morning, Mrs. Faruzan. Remember to take your medicine after breakfast."

"Mr. Cyrus, please don't strain your back again."

"Ah, Varka. Have you been drinking too much lately?"

Which earned a loud protest from the neighborhood leader. "Doctor! Don't expose me in public!"

Baizhu laughed. "My apologies. Professional habit." 

It was clear to you that everybody loved Doctor Baizhu.

Though admittedly… They couldn’t say the same to his medicine. 

"Bah! Why does this blasted thing taste worse every day?" Your grandfather grimaced after swallowing his daily medicine.

"Because you complain about it every day." Baizhu replied with a patient smile.

"It's bitter!"

"It's medicine."

"Can't you make it taste like tea or something?"

"I could, but then you'd complain that it doesn't work."

"Hmph. Still tastes awful."

"And yet you drank it without fuss today."

"Don't get smug, doctor."

You'd often hear him laugh softly whenever that happened.

A gentle laugh.

One that made the peaceful mornings feel even warmer.

You've come to like Baizhu. A lot.

Which is why it didn't take long for you to notice something about the doctor.

Every time he eats his meal, his hand often trembles, as if struggling to lift the spoon up to his lips.

But he never lets it be known to the whole world, not when he often stops using his utensils right away whenever someone comes to greet him.

He's always seen smiling, always composed, always elegant. And yet… His smile made it easy to overlook the exhaustion beneath his eyes.

When you decide to ask your grandfather about Baizhu after he left, your grandfather sighs.

"Ah, Dr. Baizhu's physical condition is far from perfect. Truth be told, I don't know how he even manages to keep up with his work. That fool should be the one lying on the bed instead of me."

You blinked.

"Doctor Baizhu is sick?"

"Always has been." Your grandfather huffed. "He's got that pharmacy of his to manage, patients to look after, and his assistant Gui running around like a headless chicken."

He sighed. "Even so, he still insists on making house calls. He never says no and never complains, especially when it comes to the children and people at my age… even when he's coughing his lungs out."

He then crossed his arm, displeased. "Bah. Doctors make terrible patients."

Your heart sank.

Ever since then, you begin paying more attention to him.

You notice how he often excuses himself to cough in private, how he occasionally loses his appetite, how his tea always turns cold because he spends more time checking on others than himself, how he quietly massages his wrists whenever they ache, and…

How he simply closes his eyes for a few moments before putting on his smile again.

Whenever you ask him how he's feeling, he simply smiles.

"I'm alright. Please don't worry too much about me."

Though the shadows beneath his eyes only seem to deepen.

One morning, while you were cleaning the tables, Baizhu suddenly collapsed.

Thankfully, it wasn't severe, but seeing the neighborhood's beloved doctor unconscious for the first time deeply worried everyone.

Especially you.

By the time he woke up, he was already embarrassed.

"My, this is rather humiliating."

You checked up on his condition, worried for your friend. "Doctor Baizhu. You scared everyone."

He simply laughed softly.

"My apologies. I suppose my body wanted a break."

Yet despite his lightheartedness, you couldn't bring yourself to feel assured that he’s alright.

And for the first time since you've known him, Baizhu noticed the tears in your eyes.

His smile faltered. "...Oh dear. Please don't cry. I assure you, I'm quite difficult to get rid of."

That only made your chest hurt even more.

After that day, you became more stubborn.

You prepared lighter meals for him, made sure his tea stayed warm, scolded him whenever he skipped meals.

And before long, the regular customers joined in too.

Varka often helped Baizhu carry his medicine supplies, some of the children reminded him to rest, and your grandfather grumbled at him every chance he got.

Somehow, the entire neighborhood had begun taking care of its doctor.

Much to Baizhu's amusement.

"Goodness. I've become everyone's patient."

One peaceful morning, after the other customers had left, Baizhu quietly asked: "May I ask you something?"

You were quick to lend an ear. "Of course."

He looked towards the window, his eyes softening. 

"...Do you think it's selfish to wish for more time?"

Your hands stopped.

"More time?"

Baizhu smiled weakly.

"Mm. More time to work and to help others."

Then, after a brief pause—

"...And to stay beside those precious to me."

Somehow…

Your face grew warm.

And Baizhu chuckled softly upon noticing. "My apologies. Perhaps that was too embarrassing."

"Not at all." You replied quietly. "I think it's only human of us to always wish for more time."

He looked genuinely surprised by your answer. 

From then on, Baizhu begins lingering after meals. 

Sometimes he stays in the restaurant more to keep you company in the lonely mornings. Sometimes he reads a book beside the counter. Or sometimes, if he feels bold, he simply watches you cook.

And every now and then, you'd catch him smiling to himself. His smile this time was fond and sincere. 

One that made your heart skip a beat.

While Baizhu was on his way to the restaurant in the morning, some of the children in the neighborhood were quick to follow him, still in their school uniforms as they’re on their way to their school.

 "Doctor Baizhu?" One kid spoke up. 

"Hm?"

"What are you thinking about that’s making you smile so wide?"

He blinked, then laughed quietly.

"Ah. Was I?"

He thoughtfully tried to come up with an answer. But deep down, he already knew the reason behind it.

“I suppose it’s a good day today.” 

One morning, as you walked with Baizhu to see him off and return to the pharmacy near the exit, Baizhu stopped in front of the wishing board.

He stood there for a long time. Longer than anyone else.

“My, how cute.” He commented. 

Then, with a gentle smile, he wrote: "I wish everyone a long and healthy life."

You smiled.

"That's a very Doctor Baizhu answer."

He laughed softly. "Old habits die hard, I'm afraid."

Then, after a moment, his gaze drifted towards you.

Warm.

Tender.

Almost wistful.

"Though… If I may be selfish just this once…"

He smiled.

"I hope I get to enjoy many more meals with you."

And despite the weakness that remained in his body, the uncertainty of tomorrow., and knowing that life could never promise him forever.

Doctor Baizhu still smiled ever so brightly.

Because for the first time in a long while, he had found something precious enough to look forward to tomorrow.

And for now.... That was enough. 

You remembered Zhongli from back when you still lived in the neighborhood.

Back when your world was much smaller, when your biggest worries consisted of unfinished homework and whether your grandfather would catch the two of you sneaking snacks from the kitchen.

He was the son of an elderly woman whom your grandparents were very close with.

And because the adults spent so much time together, their children naturally did as well.

You met him when you were young, far younger than either of you could remember.

Neither of you could really recall when exactly your friendship began, but you knew it simply existed. As naturally as breathing and as naturally as the sun rising every morning.

Since then, the two of you had been inseparable.If people saw you, Zhongli was usually nearby. And if they saw Zhongli, you certainly weren't far behind.

You grew up together, went to the same schools, shared lunches, studied together, walked home together, celebrated birthdays together, cried together, laughed together.

And before either of you realized it…

Childhood became adolescence.

And adolescence became high school.

Everyone around you simply assumed that one day, the two of you would get married.

Even your grandfather loved teasing the both of you.

"Oi, Zhongli."

"When are you taking my grandchild away, hm?"

Which only resulted in Zhongli smiling politely while you nearly died of embarrassment.

"Grandpa! Please don't tease him." You complained to your grandfather. 

Yet Zhongli always answered so calmly, so composed, and so so so dignified. “It’s alright.” 

Yet despite his collected demeanor, the tips of his ears would always turn red.

Which only made your grandfather laugh harder.

"Look at him!"

"Grandpa!"

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

Meanwhile, Zhongli merely coughed into his hand, looking everywhere except at you.

And despite your embarrassment, you secretly thought he looked adorable.

It’s safe to say that Zhongli was your first friend, your first crush, and your first love.

The person who knew you better than anyone else.

And perhaps…

Your greatest regret.

Which was why it hurt so much when your parents announced that you would be moving to the city.

You still remembered that evening.

The two of you sat inside the restaurant after closing hours, the lights were dim, the streets outside were quiet, and for the first time in your life…

You didn't know what to say to him.

Because how were you supposed to tell the person who had always been by your side that you were leaving?

You remembered crying, struggling to get the words out, and how Zhongli was quietly listening.

As he always did.

And what hurt the most was that he never once made things difficult for you. He never once complained, nor even asked you to stay.

Even though you knew that deep down, he didn't want you to go.

"...It's alright." He smiled softly. "We'll still call each other."

"And besides… You'll visit when you grow older right?” 

You smiled through your tears.

"Of course. I'll come back all the time. Nothing's going to change."

Such naive promises, such foolish confidence.

Because life had a cruel habit of getting in the way.

One year became three.

Three became five.

Calls became texts.

Texts became occasional greetings.

Occasional greetings became birthdays.

Birthdays became silence.

Yet neither of you forgot.

You couldn't.

Because Zhongli has always been your person.

And you had always been his.

Which was why, when the bell above the restaurant door rang during the final hour of the evening… You never expected to see him.

Of all people.

Zhongli.

Standing there.

Looking exactly as you remembered.

Handsome.

Elegant.

Timeless.

His expression softened upon seeing you, and he smiled. The same smile that had accompanied nearly every memory of your youth.

"...I hope I'm not too late."

Your breath caught.

For a moment, you thought you were dreaming. Yet there he was walking toward the counter, pulling out a stool, and sitting down with all the familiarity in the world.

As though no time had passed at all.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smiled.

"No… Not at all. The usual?"

And unlike everyone else, Zhongli only ever ordered tea.

Just tea.

Nothing more.

And every evening after that…

He would arrive during the last hour, without fail.

The first thing he always asked was: "How was your day?"

And you found yourself telling him everything, about the customers, the regulars, your worries, your frustrations, and the little things that made you smile.

And Zhongli listened. He always listened, looking genuinely happy just hearing your voice.

Just like before.

Which only made your chest ache.

Because regret still lingered. You regret for the years lost, for the distance, and for all the things left unsaid.

Of course, Zhongli noticed. 

He always noticed.

He placed his tea down and hummed softly. "That was a long time ago." He spoke softly, looking at you. 

"Please do not beat yourself up over it." His voice remained warm, gentle, and familiar.

"Would it make you feel better if you take a break and enjoy this tea with me?"

And no matter how exhausting your day had been, no matter how tired you felt…

You always found yourself sitting beside him.

Just like old times.

Sometimes the two of you reminisced about high school, you complained about city life, you laughed until your stomach hurt.

And sometimes… Zhongli simply listened.

Just as he always had.

Every time you apologized for losing touch, Zhongli only smiled.

"You always apologize, yet I never once blamed you."

And those words… those kind gentle words… 

Only made your heart ache even more.

His visits continued as you managed the restaurant, to the point where it became a precious routine that you found yourself looking forward to every day.

Because seeing him again made you happier than you'd been in years.

Before long, the final hour became your favorite part of the day.

Because it meant seeing Zhongli and reliving your childhood all over again.

One evening, while laughing over an embarrassing memory from high school, Zhongli suddenly asked:

"...Do you regret anything?"

You paused.

"...A lot."

"Such as?"

You looked away from him for a moment, your smile disappearing. "...Leaving… and not being here."  

Zhongli quietly listened.

As he always did.

Then he smiled gently. "Life simply happened. There's no shame in that."

Yet, his smile seemed sadder than usual. 

Truth be told, it pained him to see you constantly beat yourself up for what happened. He wanted you to truly be happy. 

Then one evening… He didn't come, nor the day after, nor the week after that.

You found yourself staring at the clock, constantly waiting for the bell.

But it never rang.

After a month had passed, your grandfather had finally recovered enough to leave his room and help around the restaurant again, feeling better than ever thanks to Baizhu’s miracle work and his perseverance.

Excited, you found yourself glancing at the clock, waiting once again for Zhongli to come.

You wanted to tell Zhongli the good news.

You wanted to tell him that Grandpa had recovered.

You wanted to tell him how happy you were.

You wanted…

To see him.

As the final hour approached, your grandfather noticed your constant glances toward the door as he was wiping the counter.

"...Waiting for someone?" He asked gruffly. 

You smiled softly. "...Not really.” 

You hesitated for a moment, sighing softly as you looked down. 

“...I just suddenly missed Zhongli."

Your grandfather paused, then smiled sadly.

"...Me too, kid."

Silence settled between the two of you.

A quiet, familiar silence.

The kind Zhongli himself would've appreciated.

Looking at the empty stool opposite yours, your chest started to hurt.

Because you already knew.

He’s never coming back at all. 

“...His death anniversary is coming next week.” You spoke sadly, voice suddenly hoarse. 

You had known ever since you returned to your hometown, ever since you stood before his mother in his home, and ever since you learned that the boy you'd loved all your life had quietly left this world while you were away.

And still, you find yourself waiting.

Listening for the bell, hoping, wishing that he comes at the last hour to talk to you.

But the bell never rang.

That night, after closing the restaurant, you quietly excused yourself.

And for the first time since returning home…

You visited him.

The moon hung high above as you stood before the gravestone that held his name, his dates, and the proof that this wasn't some terrible nightmare.

It was real.

He was gone.

Everything you had been holding back came crashing down.

The missed calls, the messages you promised to answer later before drowning from work, the news from old neighbors you were too busy to read, the funeral you arrived too late for, and the flowers.

You remembered seeing his mother crying when you entered his home, only to learn from the elderly woman that he had been battling cancer for years and that he had hidden it from everyone.

It pained you that just when you were able to finally visit him after so long, it was already over.

You collapsed before his grave, letting out shaky breaths as you sobbed.

"I'm sorry…"

"I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"I'm sorry I came too late."

"I'm sorry…"

"I'm sorry…"

The words became sobs.

You didn’t know how long you’ve been kneeling in front of his grave, the grass prickling your legs as you continued to cry in grief and regret. 

You missed him so so so much.

You wanted to tell him so many things.

And before you knew it, exhaustion overtook you as you fell asleep, curled up in front of his gravestone.  

And in your dreams, you finally saw him.

Zhongli.

He was sitting across from you with a cup of tea in his hands.

Smiling just as he always had. He was no longer the Zhongli consumed by illness, or the Zhongli that haunted your memories.

Right in front of you was Zhongli.

Your Zhongli.

You broke down immediately.

"I'm sorry,” You gasped. “I'm sorry I wasn't there! You must've been scared, you must've been lonely, a-and I—"

"It's alright." He interrupted softly.

You sobbed even more. "...But it isn't! I left, I lost touch, a-and when I finally came back—"

"Life happened." Zhongli smiled gently. "There's no shame in that."

Tears blurred your vision.

"But I missed so much." You shakily replied. 

He nodded. "Mm. But we had many wonderful years together, didn't we?"

You cried even more as he continued to talk, “...And those memories made me very happy."

He sounded so happy, it ate you alive. 

"Zhongli… Weren’t you angry at me?" You asked brokenly. 

He blinked.

Then chuckled softly. “Angry? At you?" His eyes curved warmly. "Never."

"You always apologize, and I never once blamed you. You know this was something that’s out of our hands."

Those words only made you cry harder.

"I loved you."

The confession escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Zhongli froze.

His smile then returned. "...I know."

"...And I loved you too."

Your breath caught.

There was no regret in his eyes, only warmth and peace.

As he finished his tea, he placed the empty cup down. 

"...Thank you. For remembering me, for coming home, and for allowing me to say goodbye."

Tears wouldn't stop falling, yet you smiled.

Zhongli had always known how to comfort you.

Just as he always had, and just as he always would.

"...Will I ever see you again?" You whispered.

Zhongli merely smiled.

And with the same tenderness he'd shown you since childhood, he answered: "Perhaps when the time comes. But not yet."

He then placed a hand on top of yours. "You still have much to see, so many people to meet and befriend…”

“...So please… live well for both of us.”

The world around you slowly faded.

And by the time you opened your eyes… morning had come.

You were still beside his grave alone.

Yet the loneliness didn't hurt as much.

Because for the first time since his passing…

Your heart no longer carried regret alone, but instead gratitude.

“...Thank you, Zhongli.” You whispered, sitting up from the cold ground and caressed his gravestone. “I’ll live for the both of us.”

And so, you returned to the restaurant. 

One week later, his death anniversary arrived. 

Your grandfather decided to throw a special party at the restaurant just for him as everyone that you knew came and celebrated in his name.  

As you watched the party going on, you decided to finally try out the wishing board and write your own wish. 

Tears filled your eyes once more as you pasted the paper on the board. 

Despite your tears, you smiled, knowing that Zhongli can finally move on alongside you.

The journal chronicled every nation.

Mondstadt.

Liyue.

Inazuma.

Sumeru.

Until—

It stopped.

Midway through Snezhnaya. Not even a conclusion, no final entry, nor even a farewell.

The final page ended abruptly, as though the author had simply stood up one day and vanished. The last page was the publisher’s note that explained what happened to the author, followed by an illustration of said author that you didn’t pay much attention to. 

It frustrated you endlessly.

“A shame,” you murmured one afternoon, fingers brushing the unfinished page. “I wanted to know what happened to you.”

There were no records regarding the adventurer beyond what they did in the Adventurers' Guild as well as the publisher’s note. They had no descendants, no additional publications, nor even a documentation of their life.

And from that silence, a dream was born.

You wish to continue what they could not—

“You’re staring again.”

The sharp smack of a book against the crown of your head jolted you back to the present.

“Ow—!” You glared up, already knowing who it was. “Alhaitham.”

The culprit regarded you with complete indifference. “You’ve been sitting in the same position for hours. That was your third missed meal today.”

“I was just reading for research,” you protested, rubbing a spot on your head where he smacked you. 

“You’re neglecting your basic needs,” he countered. “That disqualifies it from being productive.”

You scoffed. “You sound like a pamphlet.”

“And you sound like someone who needs to eat,” he replied evenly, handing you the book you’d been staring at. “Come on. Tavern.”

That was Alhaitham—your dearest friend, your constant, your unwanted but reliable tether to reality. Intelligent to an almost irritating degree, rational to the point of cruelty when he chose to be, and somehow always aware of where you were, what you were doing, and what you had forgotten to take care of. 

You met him early in your Akademiya years. 

He had sat across from you in the House of Daena and, without introduction or permission, spoke up after hearing your crazed mumblings over a class as you wrote down your notes.

“Your argument is flawed.”

You stared. “What?”

“This section.”

He took your notes and circled several lines.

“You’re making assumptions based on incomplete data.”

You snatched your papers back. “Excuse me?!”

He blinked. “You left them unattended.”

“That doesn't mean you get to criticize them! They’re just notes!”

“You’re welcome.”

“I am not thanking you!”

And somehow—

Neither of you stopped talking after that.

Days passed in familiar rhythms. Mornings in the House of Daena, books spread between you as sunlight filtered through towering windows. Evenings in the cozy tavern near the Akademiya, where you bickered over theories and interpretations like an old married couple, much to the amusement—and occasional concern—of onlookers.

Friendship with Alhaitham happened gradually. Neither of you noticed when arguments became discussions. Or when discussions became routines. Or when routines became something neither of you questioned anymore.

Mornings were spent in the House of Daena.

Afternoons often found the two of you seated in study areas around the Akademiya, books spread between you.

And evenings—

Evenings belonged to the tavern.

“Your evidence is anecdotal.” He spoke.

A vein popped up in your head. “Your standards are impossible.”

“They’re reasonable.”

“They’re suffocating.”

“They’re practical.”

“They’re boring.”

“You've said that three times.”

“And I mean it every time.”

Around you, the people often sighed.

Some students genuinely believed the two of you hated each other.

Others swore you were secretly married from how you two argue like one. 

Neither assumption was correct. At least, not yet.

“Why are you following me?” You groaned as you tried to lose Alhaitham in the dense forests of the region. 

“I'm not.” He spoke, following you casually. 

“You absolutely are.”

“I happened to be walking this way.”

“There are no books in Gandharva Ville!”

“There are Forest Rangers.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“And?”

“And someone has to drag you back if you decide to wrestle a spinocrocodile.”

“I've never even wrestled one! Who’s reckless enough to do that?!” 

“Says the one who attempted to approach one.”

“I couldn’t help it! Its scales looked fascinating!”

“It looked hungry.”

You laughed.

And despite himself, Alhaitham felt his lips twitch.

Just slightly.

“You worry too much.” You complained. 

“I prevent unnecessary incidents.”

“That's your way of saying you care.”

“It isn't.”

“It is.”

“It isn't.”

“Alhaitham.”

“Oh look, a spinocrocodile.” He commented, pointing in a random direction. 

“WHERE?!” You whipped your head quickly, trying to find the spinocrocodile before deciding to run. 

He sighed, and followed behind you anyway.

Even with the risks of you encountering unwanted company or even trying to touch an animal, Alhaitham always had your back, supporting your endeavors in studying creatures offered by the region and following the footsteps of the author you idolized who didn’t get to finish their book.

He wanted to push you to your goal, and if it meant having to find you all over the forests of Sumeru and keeping you company to prevent you from going places you shouldn’t be in without preparation, then so be it. 

It was on one such day, beneath the filtered green light of the forest, that you told him something that he could not support you in.

“I think my thesis will be about Aranara.” 

He stopped walking, processing your words as if you said something unprecedented and quite ridiculous. 

“That’s irrational,” he said immediately.

You turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“No adult has verifiably seen an Aranara,” he continued, unbothered by your glare. “Accounts are inconsistent, unverifiable, and limited to children. It is not a sound foundation for a thesis.”

“But they exist,” you insisted. “There are patterns. Stories that align across the region. Cultural memory doesn’t form out of nothing. The book I’ve been reading even mentioned them, but the author didn’t get to explore much of it or even thought about them! I’ve talked to a Forest Watcher who also wants to find them. We’re partnering up together to do so.”

“Belief is not evidence,” he said. “And basing your academic future on it is reckless. Even the author you idolized knows that there’s not enough evidence to even bother to try and look for an Aranara.”

For the first time, you didn’t back down.

Instead, you smiled. “Then I’ll gather evidence.”

Alhaitham frowned. He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

Because there was something in your eyes he hadn’t seen before. Not naïveté. Not stubbornness. Not the one he always sees whenever you plan to go out again and find a new creature to study and observe. 

What he saw was certainty.

After that, things changed.

You spent less time together. Your conversations grew strained, circling the same argument without resolution. Alhaitham tried to dissuade you, presenting logical rebuttals, alternative thesis topics, compromises that would allow you to pursue your curiosity safely and rationally.

And you tried to make him believe.

Yet whenever you excitedly spoke about Varanara, Alhaitham listened. Even when he disagreed.

“I interviewed fifteen children.”

“Mhm.”

“Their descriptions match.”

“Mhm.”

“Three of them independently described identical songs.”

“Mhm.”

“Alhaitham.”

“Mhm.”

“Could you sound less disinterested?”

“I am listening.”

You stared at him for a moment, your excitement quickly dwindling. “You don't believe me.”

He sighed.

“I believe in your determination.”

You looked hurt. And he hated it.

Because he wanted—

Archons.

He wanted so desperately to believe.

To support you.

To encourage you.

But he knew the Akademiya.

He knew how cruel they could be.

How merciless they were toward ideas they deemed foolish.

He didn't want to watch you destroy yourself chasing something impossible.

“I want you to succeed,” he said quietly. “But not like this.”

The argument that followed was your worst. It wasn’t like the usual arguments that you two constantly have together. This one was messy, loud, and ultimately the one that drove you off. 

“You never listen!” You spoke, standing up from your seat with an upset look. 

Despite your upset look, he remained calm. “And you refuse reason, you know the Akademiya is difficult.”

“Not everything has to fit neatly inside your books!”

“And not everything should be pursued blindly.” 

You couldn’t take it anymore. “Then maybe I should stop talking to you if you really think I’m a fool for pursuing this!”

The words hit harder than either of you intended.

You froze.

He froze.

But pride, stupid, terrible pride kept both of you silent.

And so you left.

Three days passed. Then four. Then seven. 

There were no visits, no arguments, no… you.

The House of Daena felt strangely empty, the tavern quieter, and his home colder.

He hated noticing. And hated himself more for missing you.

He wished he could cheer for you openly. Push you forward. But he knew—knew—that the Akademiya would never accept such a thesis. That you were setting yourself up for failure at best, danger at worst. He thought if he supported you, you would’ve hated him for not trying to stop you and open your eyes. 

He wished he tried harder.

The knock came at night.

“Alhaitham.”

He opened the door to find Tighnari standing there. He was ready to tell Tighnari he was uninterested in whatever he wanted to say, but he stopped his words when he noticed the way his friend’s ears were low, his expression grave.

Alhaitham closed his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” Tighnari said, voice full of remorse. “A forest watcher found them just outside Varanara. It seems they wandered into a Rishboland Tiger’s territory.”

No. No, that was impossible.

Not you.

You knew the forests better than most Rangers.

You knew animal behavior.

You understood territories.

You respected boundaries, you wouldn’t be foolish enough to try and approach one. 

You would have noticed. 

Wouldn't you?

He closed the door, not offering any response to Tighnari.

The silence that followed was oppressive. He stood there for a long moment, mind refusing to process what his heart already knew.

Were you… really gone? Just like that? 

That same night, he went to your home.

Your study was untouched. Books stacked neatly. Notes pinned meticulously to corkboards. Your thesis lay open on the desk.

He sat.

And read.

Hours passed. He traced your logic, followed your methodology, felt his chest tighten as he realized how thorough you had been. You had evidence. Patterns. Interviews. You had accounted for inconsistencies, refined testimonies, eliminated unreliable variables.

And slowly, painfully, he realized something.

Your work…

It was brilliant.

Not irrational.

Not reckless.

Brilliant.

Children could see Aranara because they had not yet lost the capacity to believe, and they are capable of things adults couldn’t do. They can dream. 

Because adulthood, you argued, was not wisdom, but erosion.

By dawn, Alhaitham sat motionless in your study, the first rays of morning filtering through the curtains and illuminating the countless pages spread before him.

Your handwriting.

Your observations.

Your dreams.

Hours had passed without him noticing.

Yet the heaviness in his chest had nothing to do with exhaustion.

It was regret.

Because perhaps, had he believed you sooner, things would have been different.

You would still be sitting across from him in the House of Daena, eyes bright with excitement as you rambled about a new discovery. You would still be exploring through the forests. You would still be finalizing your thesis, insisting that he read every page and criticize every flaw. You would still be arguing with him over multiple things. 

You would still be alive.

And he had not believed you.

But in the end, he chose reason over faith.

And now, all that remained of you were your notes and a silence he could no longer bear.

Suddenly, someone tried to open the front door. 

Alhaitham lifted his gaze.

When he opened it himself, he was greeted by none other than the Grand Sage himself, Azar. 

The older man's eyes widened slightly upon seeing him there.

"...Alhaitham."

The scribe said nothing. He merely watched.

The Grand Sage was quick to offer his condolences with practiced solemnity, speaking of tragedy and unfortunate circumstances, of how such accidents were inevitable within the rainforest.

But Alhaitham barely heard the words.

Instead, he found himself asking a far more unsettling question.

Why?

Why had the Grand Sage come personally?

You were merely another student.

Brilliant, yes, but not important enough to warrant the appearance of the Akademiya's highest authority. 

Something about it felt wrong.

Too deliberate.

Too convenient.

Because no matter how many times he replayed the reports in his mind, one fact remained.

You were not careless.

You knew the rainforest better than most Forest Rangers. You had dedicated your life to understanding its creatures, you respected their territories, and you knew the habits of Rishboland Tigers like the back of your hand.

There was no world in which you would simply wander into one unprepared.

No. 

Your curiosity had not killed you.

Something else had.

Something hidden.

Something sinister.

And judging by the man standing before him with his polished condolences and measured grief, Alhaitham had the terrible feeling that the answer lay much closer to the Akademiya than anyone realized.

The thought settled quietly within him.

Not anger.

Not outrage.

Suspicion.

And suspicion, once rooted in Alhaitham's mind, was not something easily removed.

So when the Grand Sage finally departed, he said nothing.

He asked no questions.

He offered no accusations.

Instead, he returned to your study.

Carefully, reverently, he gathered every page of your research into his arms.

Your thesis.

Your journals.

Your observations.

Even the little notes you had absentmindedly scribbled in the margins whenever inspiration struck.

He took the old adventurer's book as well—the one you cherished so dearly, the one whose unfinished story had inspired your own.

Back in his home, hidden behind a false compartment only he knew of, Alhaitham safeguarded them all, and hid the old adventurer’s journal somewhere in the House of Daena. 

Not because he intended to claim your work, nor because he wished to bury it.

But because the world had already taken you.

He would not allow it to take what you loved as well.

As time flew long after your name faded from Akademiya conversations, long after new scholars occupied the desks you once sat at, but not long after the Grand Sage was finally gone, Alhaitham would occasionally unlock that compartment. 

He would reread your findings, mentally correct the occasional spelling error with quiet amusement, and sometimes, when the nights were particularly lonely, he would find himself in the House of Daena reading the adventurer's journal you adored and wondering why reading it always felt strangely familiar.

And in the silence of his home, with only books to accompany him and memories that refused to fade, Alhaitham allowed himself one bitter thought he would carry for the rest of his life.

A thought he never spoke aloud.

One that lingered long after the world had moved on.

I should have believed you sooner.