Genshin Impact : Sorry can't be there till the end

Mondstadt's morning market was no different from five hundred years ago.

It was bustling.

The food being sold was also no different from five hundred years ago.

Warm sunlight bathed the weathered stone pillars. As you walked up the long steps covered with maple leaves, you would see Mondstadt's marketplace. People came and went, and the vendors' calls were tinted yellow by the winter morning sun.

Today's streets of Mondstadt were festive because the New Year was approaching, and there would be a fireworks display that evening.

"Grilled fish~"

"Fresh big apples, hundred Mora per kilogram~"

"Candied hawthorns, from Liyue City!"

The vendors shouted loudly. His stall was a small food cart with a variety of treats on display, dazzling the eyes.

Recently, he had learned a new skill: making candied hawthorns. He would pour two spoons of rock sugar into a pot to boil into a syrup, cooking over high heat until a pale golden, viscous liquid appeared. He would then drizzle it over hawthorn fruits, skewer them with bamboo sticks.

Time kept changing, the seas and lands transforming, but after hundreds of years, the art of making candied hawthorns remained unchanged.

The candied hawthorns he made were sweet without being cloying, crisp and delicious. They carried the fresh scent of the fruit and the smoothness of the syrup, and with their attractive appearance, they were quite popular among young couples. Little girls loved to tug at their boyfriends' sleeves, asking them to buy a skewer of candied hawthorns, eating sweetly and smiling sweetly.

For example, right in front of his stall now, there were several young couples lining up.

"Do you think it's tasty?"

The vendor looked up, slightly nervous, and asked.

She was a very elegant and tall lady.

The dark skirt trailed along the long steps, subtly revealing her slender and long legs. She wore a crimson mask, making her face unrecognizable. Her eye shadow was also crimson.

She slightly lowered her eyes, seemingly lost in thought as she gazed at the hawthorn skewer twirled between her delicate fingers. The glossy red hawthorns shimmered, and her light green eyes reflected the refracted light of the skewer, appearing somewhat entranced.

The vendor had been trading in Mondstadt for over ten years and had accumulated considerable experience. He prided himself on his ability to recognize people by sight, but he had never encountered a customer who left such a strange and contradictory impression.

This lady was elegantly dressed, exuding a cold and proud aura, yet she gave off a peculiar illusion—as if her soul was light, ready to melt away like snow in the sunlight.

"Have you tried candied hawthorns before?" he asked.

To avoid awkwardness, he chuckled and spoke auspicious words:

"These candied hawthorns come from Liyue. The small hawthorn fruits coated with syrup are both red and round, symbolizing happiness and reunion. Skewered together with bamboo sticks, they also signify good things coming one after another."

"When a boy buys a skewer of candied hawthorns for his girl, it means sweet love and a happy union."

Saying auspicious words at such times was undoubtedly the right thing to do.

"Reunion, huh." La Signora replied softly.

She watched the bright red hawthorns, her eyes subtly moving. After a while, she said, "I've eaten them before."

"Was it a boy who gave them to you?"

"Many years ago." La Signora responded. She seemed to recall something, shaking her head helplessly, a faint smile gracing the corners of her mouth. But the smile was so thin, like fresh snow under the sunlight:

"Rather, I forced him to buy them."

"You still remember? That's wonderful."

The middle-aged vendor sighed with a hint of emotion and said:

"That's truly happiness. I've always held this belief: many things can be forgotten, but sensory memories like taste remain deep. The food you taste isn't important; what matters is the person you share it with—the time and place, the memories. Whether in a bustling city or a quiet village, in the morning or at dusk."

"Letters give shape to memories, and food gives flavor to memories. Encountering a flavor is akin to encountering a person."

Mondstadt was indeed a city rich in artistic atmosphere. Even a vendor had his own insights:

"Candied hawthorns are both tart and sweet. When you later reminisce about your time with him, it will be tart and sweet as well. Years later, when you recall those events, you'll think of the taste of candied hawthorns, remember the morning, the dusk, and the emotions of that day... I think that's a wonderful thing."

La Signora listened quietly to the middle-aged vendor's reflections. When he finished speaking, she gently nodded.

The Fatui executive never listened to ordinary people's words. The vast gap in knowledge and life levels meant they didn't like or disdain conversing with mortals.

But today, La Signora was strange. She didn't know why.

"…I'm sorry."

The vendor scratched his head slightly, a bit embarrassed. "I've said too many strange things…"

"The strange one is me."

La Signora whispered softly.

She paused, the bright spring light casting fragmented leaf shadows on her delicate side face. La Signora slightly lowered her head, half her face submerged in the shadow. After a while, she continued:

"He died."

Her tone held no trace of emotion.

——

He died.

It was something she had long understood.

He had died centuries ago, so why still care?

It was meaningless.

La Signora was elegantly dressed, exuding a cold and proud aura, yet she gave off a peculiar illusion—as if her soul was light, ready to melt away like snow in the sunlight.

She crossed the marketplace, walking up the steps. The trees swayed, casting her eyes in confusion. She slightly lifted her mask, biting the bright red candied hawthorn, the sweetness of the hawthorn exploding on her tongue, rolling with a slight tartness. Mondstadt was just as it had always been, even the taste hadn't changed.

Tart and sweet.

"Cough." She coughed up blood, mixing with the candied hawthorn. Two spots of bright red.

In the attic.

Spectating.

Late.

La Signora felt as if her entire life had been spent in the attic, in a high place, looking down. Incompatible with humans, she was like this before Rostam died and like this after Rostam died. She had buried her girlhood, but she seemed unchanged.

Late as well.

In the attic. Vast rivers and low clouds, a lone wild goose crying in the west wind.

Every rainy night, every dusk, every dawn, when Rostam appeared in the square for his appointment, she stood in the attic, watching coldly. The west wind severed the letters, and the boy died in the valley. She was also in the academy's attic.

How did her life and Seino Fugin reach such a confrontational end?

La Signora reflected on the past.

Perhaps the sailor's death was the spark, or rather, the last straw that broke the camel's back.

The sailor's death made Seino see clearly that he and La Signora were walking different paths.

The divergence in their beliefs was the most fundamental difference. From that time on, they were like strangers.

Either he killed her, or she killed him.

When the sailor died, she was also in the attic; when Seino Fugin died, she was also in the attic.

Calmly watching them die.

Just like five hundred years ago.

Venti was right. Seino never confessed his true identity until his death. It was his gentleness.

If she could remain ignorant, knowing nothing, she could continue walking forward.

There was nothing out of the ordinary.

Nor would she shed tears.

She finished eating the last candied hawthorn, and La Signora finally reached her destination.

She walked very slowly, it was almost noon.

This was an abandoned Anemo Archon statue, near the city wall.

The dim sunlight covered the walls, thick ivy and moss filled every crack between the bricks. The statue leaned against the edge of the city wall, the ivy leaves casting dark green shadows, mingling with the scattered sunlight, making it hard to see clearly.

The statue was very old and damaged, with large areas rusted, many parts charred into coal, the scorched marks resembling fluttering butterflies.

——'I will let you take the gnosis.'

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

Barbatos's words still echoed in her ears.

She laughed self-mockingly.

'Because this is my deal with her.'

'I will let you take Seino Fugin's heart. I respect his last wish.'

La Signora still remembered how Mondstadt's Anemo Archon said these words, turning her back to her.

The slightly cold sea breeze brushed her long braids. Her fingers clenched the strings of the Holy Lyre der Himmel, showing faint green veins. Her expression was unreadable, only knowing that her thin shoulders trembled slightly, as if making a difficult decision. She spoke in a tone that sounded like she was gritting her teeth, her voice very deep, as deep as the rustling wind.

So gods can be sad too.

After a long time, the Anemo Archon added, 'Rostam has something left for you. Under the Anemo Archon statue at the back of the city wall. The content is something I haven't seen.'

Her voice was very low.

'What?' La Signora was very surprised, her pupils dilating. "Rostam...?"

After a while, the cold wind rustled between them.

"'A Rainy Night at Cider Lake.' The Anemo Archon said, 'The story this song tells is about lovers separated by war, unable to communicate through letters. The wind became their messenger, carrying the scent of wine and bringing triumphant news.'"

"'During those times, you also lost contact because of the war and were separated. But he kept writing to you, never stopping.'"

"…?" La Signora suddenly realized something.

Venti lowered her eyes, seemingly reminiscing,

"Five hundred years ago, when the abyss monsters invaded Mondstadt, the young wolf fought daily on the city walls, from dawn till dusk. When the sun set and dusk tinted the forests, he shed his armor and began writing letters to you."

"'Letters were not delivered, so he buried those letters in the earth pouches beneath the Anemo Archon statue. He prayed to the wind to deliver the letters to Rosalyne, to Rosalyne, to Rosalyne...'"

Venti turned slightly, her pale blue eyes shimmering with sorrow. She whispered, "...Like the story told in that song, the wind was their messenger..."

She paused, lowering her head, gritting her teeth, "I am your messenger. Now, I must give those letters to you."

"Rostam always kept his promise, even near death. Even when life ceased."

What.

What.

Rosalyne was stunned.

Something seemed to crack further within her heart.

...Why.

Why.

'He kept writing to me, only delivering the letters through the wind.'

'He kept his promise, only I was late.'

Why.

Why was she so foolish, so inflexible? At the square as well, now becoming a vice commander... If he couldn't wait for you at the square, just don't wait. If the letters can't reach you, don't write them...

Why.

Only she was ugly.

La Signora was astonished to find that tears seemed to glimmer in the Anemo Archon's eyes.

Crystal clear tears reflected the morning sun's dawn, flowing in those emerald eyes. Barbatos lowered her head, her shoulders trembling slightly,

"This is not fair. I just wanted to reunite with her. I just wanted to see her again. My request wasn't high. I just wanted to be friends with her again, to start over. I just wanted to have a drink with her again. I'm a heartless drunkard, easily dismissed... Why must we part after meeting once, why am I just the wind that delivers the letters in the poetic story, why?"

"Your story is as beautiful as a poem."

Barbatos gazed into La Signora's eyes,

"Rosalyne-Kruzchka Lohefalter, you destroyed this musical score with your own hands."

This was Venti's last sentence to her.

The words the vendor said still echoed in La Signora's ears:

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

Now she had tasted the tart and sweet candied hawthorns, so what was the shape of those memories?

Those letters were buried beneath the statue.

The slightly cold wind rustled the branches of the ivy.

She dug away the earth pouches bit by bit, her slender fingers probing the soft ground. She squatted down, her long skirt dragging on the ground.

Her pure, translucent nails were covered in dirt.

Perhaps she could use a simpler method, but she still chose to use her hands.

To feel with her skin. To feel this emotion.

The outer layer of the earth pouch was soft because of the heavy rain last night. The inner soil began to dry and harden, turning deep red.

What is the shape of memories...?

What was Rostam's final letter.

Was it a farewell?

Perhaps it was a farewell.

They never had a farewell between them. La Signora was always late, and they lacked a farewell between them. What would he say in farewell words?

La Signora still had that water timepiece.

Inside the translucent glass bottle, the hourglass that measured time had long stopped. Rostam had said that when the timepiece completed one cycle, they would meet again. But the water timepiece didn't know how many cycles had passed. They still hadn't met again.

He was fighting in the war at that time, right?

According to his foolish mind, perhaps the last letters he wrote would only talk about the war—how many Hilichurls he killed, how many abyss hunters he dealt with... detailing every little thing.

He did so tirelessly, blank and simple, like a piece of wood that could never awaken.

No matter the letters, no matter the content, at the beginning, he always started with a cliché and persistent line:

[My dearest miss Rosalyne, How Are You?]

In the late afternoon, the boy lay in the corner. He might have been writing or singing, eagerly wanting to share many of his thoughts—Rosalyne could always imagine them.

Time slowly passed, the afternoon sunlight gradually dimmed. Winter dusk always came quickly, and the bustling noise echoed outside Mondstadt.

Today was the New Year. According to tradition, there would be fireworks.

La Signora had once watched Mondstadt's fireworks with Rostam. The dazzling fireworks bloomed in the night sky before them, under the brilliant light, the boy held her hand.

Would he write these things in his letters?

La Signora didn't know.

What is the shape of memories.

What is the shape of memories?

Her fingertips touched something, seemingly an iron box. La Signora froze, stunned.

Fireworks burst behind her.

The brilliant flames illuminated the entire world.

That iron box was nearly melted, the melted iron sheets re-solidifying into a rather ugly shape lying on the ground. Rosalyne suddenly remembered the scorch marks on the statue, those burn marks.

She realized something.

Her heart began to burn slowly again.

She trembled.

Don't...

She whispered softly.

The flame marks were so familiar, so familiar. She had deliberately ignored this...

Those flame shapes were butterflies.

The Fire Witch burned everything five hundred years ago. La Signora wandered amidst the hellfire within her heart, burning everything along the way.

She burned away her tears, burned away her heart, and also the iron box.

La Signora finally opened the iron box, but there was nothing inside.

Empty.

Only ashes.

The letters had been burnt by her own hands.

Letters are the shape of memories,

Their memories were ashes.

All the letters Rostam gave to the wind were burnt by fire. Rosalyne tried desperately to sift through the ashes, but she found nothing, nothing remained.

Only the line engraved on the inner layer of the iron box remained, a line of letters twisted by flames:

[My dearest miss Rosalyne, Goodbye.]

Blank.

At the moment she saw those words, her heart felt an emptiness deep within.

"Haha." She laughed softly, saying, "This time, it's really goodbye."

She said.

"You wrote dozens of letters, and this time you finally got creative. Congratulations, well done."

She laughed gently, her shoulders trembling as she laughed, then lowered her head.

[My dearest miss Rosalyne, How Are You?]

[My dearest miss Rosalyne, How Are You?]

....

[My dearest miss Rosalyne, Goodbye.]

Goodbye.

Blank.

A long, long blank.

Finally.

Rosalyne felt a spasmodic pain in her heart.

She finally felt pain, the agony burned into the ashes. Fireworks bloomed in Mondstadt's sky.

The cheers from the alleys echoed as La Signora lowered her head.

Pain... or regret?

She had nothing left.

She had destroyed the poem between them with her own hands.

That heart was still warm.

La Signora took it out.

In the slightly cold night breeze, Seino Fugin's heart emitted a glaze-colored glow, reflecting the flickering trajectory of the fireworks. Perhaps there had never been such a beautiful heart in the world.

But La Signora knew, this heart did not belong to her.

All she had left were ashes.

——'Please give my heart to Kunikuzushi.'

These were Seino Fugin's final words.

He died before her, Rosalyne pierced his chest.

Rosalyne still remembered the boy's appearance when he died. He was neither sad nor angry. He just looked up, giving a helpless and resigned smile,

That smile was as light as the breeze, a helpless wind.

La Signora instinctively clenched that heart.