Genshin Impact, I, a mere mortal, cannot accompany you to the very end.

His tone was completely flat.

-

That person is dead.

It's something I already knew a long time ago.

He died hundreds of years ago, so why bother caring?

This is pointless.

The woman walked through the market and climbed the steps. The dappled shade of the trees dazzled her eyes. She slightly lifted her mask and bit into the bright red candied hawthorn. The sweetness of the hawthorn exploded on her tongue, followed by a slight tartness. Mondstadt was no different from before, not even the taste had changed.

It was raw yet sweet.

"Cough." She coughed up blood, which mixed with the candied hawthorn, leaving two bright red spots.

In the attic.

Bystanders.

be late.

The woman felt as if her entire life had been spent in an attic, high up, looking down, forever overlooking. She was out of place with humanity; she was like that before Rustan died, and she was like that after Rustan died. She buried the girl, but she seemed unchanged.

Being late is also an option.

Up in the attic. The river is wide, the clouds are low, and a lone wild goose cries in the west wind.

Every rainy night, every dusk, every dawn, when Rustan appeared in the square as promised, she stood in the attic, watching coldly; the west wind cut off the letters, the boy died at the bottom of the valley, and she was also in the attic of the Church.

How did Shisei and Kiyono Kazein end up fighting each other with swords?

The woman reviewed her past.

The sailor's death may have been the trigger, or perhaps the final straw that broke the donkey's back.

The sailor's death made Kiyono realize that he and the lady were on different paths.

The most fundamental difference was their differing philosophies on development; from that point on, they became like strangers.

Either he kills her, or she kills him.

She was in the attic when the sailor died; she was in the attic when Kiyono Fuue died.

Watch them die peacefully.

Just like five hundred years ago.

Wendy was right; Kiyono refused to reveal his identity until his death because of his gentleness.

If one can remain ignorant and know nothing, then one can continue on this path.

Nothing unusual.

She will not shed tears.

After finishing the last bite of the candied hawthorn, the lady finally reached her destination.

She walked very slowly; it was almost afternoon.

This is an abandoned statue of the wind god, located near the city wall.

The thin sunlight covered the walls, and lush ivy and moss filled all the gaps between the bricks. The statue leaned against the edge of the city wall, and the ivy cast dark green shadows that mingled with the scattered sunlight, making it difficult to see clearly.

The statue was very old and dilapidated, with large areas rusted and many parts burned into charcoal, the charred marks resembling fluttering butterflies.

—'I will let you take the Heart of God.'

'If you ever return to Mondstadt, I will truly kill you.'

Barbatos's words still echoed in my ears.

She laughed self-deprecatingly.

'Because this is a deal between her and me.'

'I will let you take Kiyono Kaze's heart with you; I respect his last wish.'

The woman still remembered how Mondstadt's wind god looked when he said those words, with his back to her.

A slightly chilly sea breeze ruffled her long braids. Her fingers gripped the strings of the Sky Harp tightly, revealing faint blue veins. Her expression was obscured, but her slender shoulders trembled slightly, as if she had made a difficult decision. Her voice was low and husky, as if she were gritting her teeth.

Even gods can feel sadness.

After a long while, the wind god spoke again, 'Russtan has something for you. It's under the statue on the back city wall. I haven't seen what it says.'

The voice was very low.

"What?" The woman was surprised, her pupils dilating. "Russian...?"

After a while, the wind blew between them.

"Rainy Night at Fruit Wine Lake." The Wind God said, "The story this song tells is of a couple separated by war, unable to communicate. The wind becomes their messenger, 'carrying the aroma of wine' and 'bringing news of victory.'"

"You lost contact back then, weren't you? Separated by the war. But he was actually writing to you all the time. He never stopped."

"...?" The woman suddenly realized something.

Wendy lowered her eyes, seemingly lost in thought.

"Five hundred years ago, monsters from the abyss invaded Mondstadt. The young wolf fought on the city walls every day, from dawn to dusk. When the sun went out and twilight painted the forests, he took off his armor and began to write you letters."

"Letters couldn't reach them, so he buried the letters in a sack of earth in front of the wind god's statue, praying to the wind, 'Please send the letters to Rosalind, please send the letters to Rosalind, please send the letters to Rosalind...'"

Wendy turned to the side, her pale blue eyes gleaming with sorrow, and whispered, "...Just like the story in that song, the wind is their messenger..."

She paused, lowered her head, and gritted her teeth, "I am your messenger. Now I will give you those letters."

"Russtan kept his promise, even as death approached. Even as life came to an end."

what.

what.

Rosalyn was stunned.

It seemed as if something inside me was cracking open even further.

...Why.

why.

He kept writing to me, but he just let the letters drift away in the wind.

He kept his promise; he was the only one who was late.

why.

Why is he so stupid and inflexible? It was the same in the square, and now that he's the deputy commander... If you can't wait for me in the square, then don't wait; if the letter can't be delivered, then don't write it...

why.

The only ugly one is oneself.

The woman was astonished to find that there seemed to be tears in the eyes of the wind god.

The glistening tears reflected the first rays of the morning sun, flowing in his emerald eyes. Barbatos lowered his head, his shoulders trembling slightly.

"This is not fair. I just want to see her again. I just want to see her one more time. My request is not high. I just want to have a drink with my friends. I'm a heartless drunkard. I'm easy to please... Why must we part after just one meeting? Why am I just a messenger of the wind in poems and stories? Why?"

"Your story is as beautiful as a poem."

Barbatos gazed into the woman's eyes.

"Rosalind Kruzshika, you destroyed this score with your own hands."

That was the last thing Wendy said to her.

The vendor's words still echoed in the woman's ears:

Letters are the shape of memories, and food is the taste of memories.

Now that she has tasted the bittersweetness of candied hawthorn, what shape does memory take?

Those letters were buried under the statue.

A slightly chilly wind rustled through the branches of the Virginia creeper.

She dug away the soil bit by bit, her slender fingers probing into the soft ground. She squatted down, her long skirt trailing on the ground.

The once pristine white nails were now covered in grime.

There might be a simpler method, but she still intends to use her hands.

Feel it with your skin. Feel this feeling.

The outermost layer of soil is soft because it rained heavily last night. The soil inside slowly dries and hardens, revealing a deep red color.

What is the shape of memory...?

What letter did Rustam leave behind at the end?

Is this a farewell?

Perhaps it was a farewell.

They never said goodbye. The girl was always too late. They were missing a farewell. What would he have said in his farewell?

The lady was also carrying that water clock.

Inside the crystal-clear glass bottle, the hourglass that had been measuring time had long since stopped. Rustan had once said that they would meet again once the water clock had completed a week, but countless weeks had passed, and they still had not met.

He was probably fighting at the time.

Given his dull mind, perhaps the last letter he wrote would only contain dry talk about the war.

Rosalind could imagine it all, like how many Hilichurls she killed that day, how many Abyssal Hounds she dealt with... She described these things in great detail.

He was tireless in his pursuit, naive and simple-minded, like a block of wood that would never come to his senses.

No matter what kind of letter it was, no matter what its content, he would always begin with the same old, unchanging sentence:

【Dear Ms. Rosalyn, hello】

As the beginning.