Chapter Text
By deliberate design, the Twentieth Ward looks almost identical to the rest of Celestia’s residential areas: low, lush grass sectioned off by neatly paved stone roads, two-sometimes-three-storeyed houses sitting equidistant from each other along them, with all manner of greenery sprawling between. The sky above holds clouds tinged with gold and is a consistent clear blue in the daytime, kind and temperate.
The only difference is the still quiet that hangs beneath it.
Ganyu likes the quiet; it’s a welcome change from the pace of the office, and even the relative bustle of the other wards. She would enjoy it more, if it weren’t currently accompanied by a nagging anxious guilt. But she hardly ever visits the Twentieth Ward unless she’s made an error: not a common occurrence, and increasingly uncommon after three thousand years of doing her soulmate-assigning adeptal duties. She’s good at her job. She has to be, as one of the more senior adepti. The last time she’d come here for an apology visit had been over two hundred years ago.
She turns a corner and greets a middle-aged man, the first person she’s seen since entering the ward. Down the road are two more figures, strolling further ahead. She smiles at the sight. It’s a fairly rare one: all of the ward’s residents are presently without soulmates and therefore live alone, each with their own house. Quiet and solitude are the default here.
Ganyu reaches a lot halfway down the row. This house and yard are plain, generally a sign of vacancy. This house, Ganyu knows, happens to be freshly occupied as of a few hours ago. She skims the file in her hands once more, despite having done so twice this morning already, then tucks it under her arm again.
She repeats the information in her mind: Keqing. Director of Construction under Liyue’s Ministry of Infrastructure—well, formerly. Cause of death: building collapse. Aged thirty at time of death. Would have turned thirty-one in five days, but alas, death knows neither respect nor restraint. And then, of course, the damning fact, the reason for Ganyu’s visit: Keqing was assigned a soulmate that already had a match, an error that had ultimately negated Keqing’s assignment. That was Ganyu’s fault.
Ganyu corrects the self-conscious grimace on her face into a smile and tugs at the collar of her white linen tunic to straighten it. Best not to waste time. She climbs the set of four steps leading up to a square wooden stoop. She inhales, then exhales, lifts her hand, and knocks thrice on the door, a firm but unurgent rhythm.
It opens promptly. A woman steps into the modest space of the doorway, brow furrowed. She wears a crisp blazer, and her long purple hair is pulled back into two neat buns, the excess falling from their hold behind her in twintails. She looks as though she is receiving any old business visit, and not her first guest in the afterlife.
“Hello, welcome to Celestia,” Ganyu greets, with a respectful dip of her head. “You are Keqing, correct?”
A curt nod from the woman. “Yes. And you are?”
“I’m Ganyu. I’m sure your welcoming attendant has already informed you but unfortunately, you—”
“—died and am without a soulmate to live with here due to an error with my assignment. I’ve been informed, yes,” Keqing finishes.
There’s a short pause, in which Ganyu’s practiced pleasant smile remains steady. Keqing looks as sharp as her records make her sound—all intent focused angles, shoulders held square in the doorway. Apparently, she speaks as sharply as she looks.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Ganyu says cordially. “Um, I’m actually the one responsible for that error, so I’ve come to offer a formal apology and to make sure you settle in comfortably.”
“Oh,” Keqing says, a sound of understanding. Nothing angry surfaces in her expression. Instead, she shrugs and waves a hand in dismissal. “It’s fine, you don’t need to apologize.”
If only it were so easy. Ganyu has followed protocol for thousands of years, however, and is not about to deviate now, so she asks, “May I come in? I have a few introductory things to discuss with you.”
Keqing seems to consider this for a moment. “Yeah, sure,” she answers, and finally steps back from the door.
The interior of the house is almost as plain as its exterior, filled with sunlight that streams through still-curtainless windows. The furniture is the same basic set that greets all newcomers, pale polished wood free of embellishment. A map is unfolded, laid out on the table, one of the two chairs pushed back.
“I see you’re already familiarizing yourself with Celestia,” Ganyu notes.
“Of course,” Keqing replies. “I think it would be foolish not to, given the opportunity.” She tilts her head at it. “It’s a good map. Efficient layout as well.”
“Well, it is divinely planned,” Ganyu quips. Keqing huffs a short chuckle, and Ganyu smiles, genuinely this time. The nervous knot in her stomach loosens a bit. Perhaps this might not go terribly after all. She gestures at the table. “Shall we sit?”
They sit down opposite of each other. Keqing halves the map and pushes it aside, then folds her hands before her and turns her attention to Ganyu. There is a curiosity widening her gaze, waiting, but not particularly patient either.
“So,” Ganyu begins, “what did the welcoming attendant go through with you?”
The slight scowl twists back over Keqing’s face. “Not much.” She keeps count on her fingers, pressing each one back with her thumb as she recalls. “She gave me a rundown of how I died, told me there was an issue with my soulmate assignment, and started to show me around the ward but we only made it through two streets. Then she said she had to run and that someone would be with me shortly.”
“Ah,” Ganyu says. “Please excuse her. It sounds like she had a busy schedule to attend to.”
“A lot of newly dead people coming in today, huh?”
Ganyu isn’t sure if she should laugh. “Yes, I suppose.”
Keqing raises a brow. “Shouldn’t you be busy with them too then? Do you have time to be sitting down for a chat with me?”
“My job is to match people to a soulmate, so I don’t often take care of welcomes,” Ganyu explains. “It is, however, my responsibility to make up for my wrongs.” She dips her head. “I apologize for my mistake and any grievances it may have caused you.”
Keqing waves her hand again. “Seriously, it’s fine. No need to keep apologizing.” Her tone is so nonchalant, nearly flippant, that Ganyu doubts she grasps the whole of the situation. Sometimes it takes the newly deceased a while to come to terms with their death, let alone the circumstances of their new life.
“If you insist,” Ganyu agrees. “We can move onto the next step then.”
“What’s that—a proper tour?”
Ganyu feels the corner of her mouth twitch in faint amusement. “In due time. First, let’s fill in what your welcoming attendant missed. Did she explain why you’ve been assigned to this ward?”
“She said I’ve been placed here because I don’t have a soulmate,” Keqing replies.
Ganyu nods. “The majority of residents here are temporary ones,” she says. “People with soulmates are assigned a house together upon arrival in one of eighteen other wards. Of course, nobody here will be—”
“Hold on,” Keqing interrupts. “So that’s all a soulmate is?” She looks mildly smug—as though she’s just been proven right, with a tinge of curiosity. “A housemate for eternity?”
Ganyu falters. “Well… I wouldn’t consider that a small role.”
Keqing presses on. “A soulmate isn’t supposed to be your one true love?”
“They can be a romantic love, but in many cases, they are not,” Ganyu answers.
“Not the person who brings you the most fortune in life?”
Ganyu shakes her head. “Again, it’s possible, but that isn’t true for all cases.”
“That’s what most people believe in Liyue,” Keqing muses. “The older people, anyway. The younger ones are starting to take on the Mondstadtian view that soulmates are romantic. But I’m sure you knew that.”
“We’re aware of the different interpretations and beliefs regarding soulmates,” Ganyu confirms. She doesn’t add that the changing trends are often a topic of gossip among the adepti at the office. “You don’t seem to like either of those views much.”
“I don’t. They’re restrictive,” Keqing states. She pauses. “So a soulmate is really just… a housemate.”
“A companion,” Ganyu corrects her. “The time you spend here will be long. It can be lonely. Ah—which brings me to our next course of action. We’ll need to assign you a soulmate and move you out of the Twentieth Ward.”
“What?” Keqing’s voice is incredulous. All traces of smugness and wonder have disappeared from it in an instant. She folds her arms across her chest, resistant. “I’m not interested in being assigned a soulmate. I’m perfectly fine living on my own—I’ve done it for over a decade already.”
“You don’t need to live with them, per se,” Ganyu reasons, although she’s beginning to severely doubt that anything she can say will be fruitful. “Some choose to live in separate houses within the same lot. That can all be arranged.”
“So what’s the difference between that and me staying here, by myself?” Keqing presses.
“This ward is meant to be a temporary home. People will come and go. You won’t have… the same stability.”
Keqing doesn’t budge. “You’re telling me,” she challenges, “that nobody, in all of Celestia, has decided they would rather live alone. Or is it that you don’t allow them that decision?”
“There are,” Ganyu says. She tries not to let her simmering exasperation seep through. “Very very few people choose to stay here alone. But—”
“Then you can count me among them,” Keqing says. Her stare has sharpened again. Ganyu finds she has neither the boundless strength—especially not this early into their time together—nor the desire to keep fending against it.
“Well,” she half-relents, “either way, I’ll be visiting you routinely to make sure you’re adjusting and settling in comfortably. Things can change, so I… would just suggest you remain open to that.”
“Right,” Keqing says, without much conviction. “Thank you.”
They both lapse into a resounding stalemate. Ganyu shifts in her seat. Her smile feels thin and strained now, and she’s suddenly itching to be back at the office, or somewhere that isn’t here. As a small consolation, she reminds herself that working with a resistant, highly opinionated resident is still better than working with none at all; the last person she’d taken care of in the Twentieth Ward had refused to let her in for nearly three weeks.
“Why don’t I give you a proper tour of the neighborhood?” Ganyu suggests. She rises from the table. “Then I’ll let you settle in. You must have had a long morning.”
Thankfully, Keqing agrees and allows Ganyu to usher her back out into the warm sunlight.
As expected, Yanfei is hovering by Ganyu’s desk when she returns to office on the fifth floor of the Central Pavilion. And also just as expected, Xiao directs intermittent scowls at Yanfei from his desk across the marble aisle, clearly displeased with her loitering. Yanfei ignores him. She is young, compared to both of them, having only been at her job for one hundred years, and takes to peculiar cases and abnormalities with unbridled curiosity.
“Well?” she asks, once Ganyu sets her file down. “How did it go?”
Ganyu briefly presses her palms to the desk and leans against it with a sigh. “Not terribly. But also not very well, I think,” she says, straightening back up.
“Aw. Is”—Yanfei briefly checks the file—“Keqing coping poorly?”
“No,” Ganyu answers. “I think… maybe she’s coping a bit too well. She’s refusing a soulmate assignment and wants to stay in the Twentieth Ward.”
“Ooh…” Yanfei says slowly. “Did you show her the statistics from last year’s survey?”
“The ones about average resident happiness?”
“Uh-huh, from each ward. Government people love statistics, don’t they?”
Ganyu smiles, but shakes her head. “I thought it would be a bit too much for an introduction,” she says. “I don’t think she would’ve changed her mind anyway.” And after a pause—“I do feel a little sorry for her. Her birthday is in five days.”
“Five days? Poor thing. I mean, not that dying right after a birthday is any better.”
“Probably worse,” Ganyu agrees with a halfhearted chuckle. “I considered doing something for her. Or do you think that would be too much?”
“Hmm.” Yanfei drums her fingers lightly against Ganyu’s desktop. “Maybe. I’m assuming you didn’t leave off on a good note.”
“It was… alright,” Ganyu recalls, maintaining an even expression but grimacing inwardly at the not-at-all distant memory of their strained goodbyes at Keqing’s door. Keqing had probably been relieved to be rid of her.
Yanfei continues thinking aloud. “But then again, I hear some new arrivals are like that. Even the ones with soulmates. A bit prickly in the beginning—then they come around. A birthday gesture might help expedite the process. You know, like a peace offering. Although if she’s a true politician, she might see it as a bribe instead, in which case, it could go one of—”
Xiao clears his throat. Yanfei’s ramble peters off, and she and Ganyu turn toward him, where he’s stood from his desk.
“Just choose one. It won’t matter either way,” he says.
“What would you do then?” Yanfei asks.
“It isn’t my business.” Xiao shrugs, expression flat. “Excuse me. I have an Ascension appointment to take care of.” He strides down the aisle and disappears down the steps at the end of it.
“Very helpful.” Yanfei clicks her tongue at his retreating back. “Imagine his face being the last thing you see before you hop on a carriage and cease to exist.”
Ganyu lets out a quiet laugh. She does her best to keep peace and maintain her neutrality in the office. Admittedly, it’s not a difficult task: none of the employees are truly inflammatory. The ones that are don’t last. Combative personalities might endure a century or so, but they simply aren’t sustainable for longer.
“I don’t think his duties do much to improve his mood,” she points out.
“Sure, sure,” Yanfei deadpans. “I just hope he isn’t the one who’s going to have to send Zhongli off.”
Ganyu’s smile tightens the slightest bit at the mention of Zhongli. Just two weeks ago, he’d announced his retirement, explaining in his usual soothing rumble that he wished to take some time to experience life as a regular resident before he finally made his Ascension. The exact retirement date has yet to be announced—Zhongli mentioned he wanted to tie up loose ends—and he would still be around for years afterward, but Ganyu just can’t wrap her mind around the coming reality of him no longer being here. He’s overseen the Department of Soulmate Affairs since Ganyu first began working there—when Guizhong had still been around. She tries not to think about his impending departure.
Yanfei, observant, pauses upon sensing Ganyu’s hesitation, but doesn’t continue the topic. Her relationship with Zhongli is younger, more distant. “Anyway,” Yanfei says eagerly, “back to Keqing. Want me to take a look at her file?”
Ganyu shakes her head. She’s unloaded far too many of her troubles already. “Don’t worry,” she says, waving a hand. “I’ll take care of it.”
The Hall of Living Records is an impossible space, located in the East Wing just south of the Central Pavilion where most of the day-to-day operations take place. The East Wing itself is a narrow building, old and monumental, easily one of the largest in all of Celestia, but the interior of the Hall of Living Records is far larger than the building that holds it.
Chandeliers flicker to life along the high ceiling, lighting long rows of towering bookcases from above as Ganyu steps in. She draws the double doors closed behind her. It’s after work hours, and the sky outside is already darkening, but this room, windowless, is perpetually lit with the same dim golden warmth.
Ganyu doesn’t often come here, and when she does, she doesn’t stay to indulge. The endless bookcases hold an ever-growing collection of books, each volume the record of a human’s life. Ganyu used to pick a book out at random to study the life within, and still does, occasionally, but nowadays she tries to limit her visits to mainly work-related ones.
A yellow light—more concentrated gold than the chandelier lights above—glows into her peripheral vision. Ganyu turns to her left to see a seelie floating toward her, a sort of nebulous round creature, hardly larger than the size of her head. It stops as it approaches, and performs two tight loops in midair, its shimmering flare of a tail trailing gracefully. Ganyu smiles at it.
“Hello,” she greets in return. She holds out a scrap of paper, on which she’s written Keqing’s information. “If you could be so kind as to find me this record… her time of death was seven twenty-two this morning.”
The seelie bobs forward and absorbs the note into its body, digesting the paper until it’s gone. Then it zips off down an aisle on the far left side. Ganyu sits down to wait at one of the square tables nearby. A few minutes later, the seelie returns, a book enveloped inside its form, as if cradled with light. It deposits the book gently before her. Ganyu thanks it before it disappears back among the shelves again.
The book beneath her palms is heavy and leather-bound and thick, although not nearly the thickness of records belonging to people who lived out full lifespans. Keqing’s name runs in silver letters down its spine, which groans when Ganyu creases it open. The print is just small and dense enough that she has to dip her face closer to properly make out the words. She begins to skim with a measured aloofness and modest caution.
It's one thing to indulge in a stranger’s story, she thinks—someone who she’ll never meet. It’s another to seek out the life of someone she knows. And although Keqing isn’t a friend—or anyone Ganyu feels particularly inclined to befriend—and this falls within Ganyu’s work duties, Ganyu still feels like she’s dipping into forbidden territory, prematurely stealing away secrets without hearing them from Keqing herself.
She sifts through pages quickly, squinting, as if this would help her filter out all but the information she’s looking for: hints at Keqing’s choice of foods, or examples of her preferences in celebrations. Ganyu could remain blissfully unaware for the rest, for the time being, and after Keqing is all sorted, she would let all this knowledge slip off into some vague and distant corner of her mind.
Just past the midway point, Ganyu’s gaze catches on what seems to be a relevant detail: a welcome dinner on the first night of a new internship where Keqing enjoyed a slice of coconut cake and egg tarts for dessert. Ganyu tucks the detail away. It’s a start. Her eyes stray further down the page:
09:50:14 Keqing feels the beginnings of a stomach ache, the text lists out, plain and matter-of-fact. She’s in a team meeting at the office, Ganyu finds when her gaze darts up a few lines for context. 09:58:27 Keqing says, “Excuse me.” 09:58:31 Keqing runs to the restroom. 09:58:41 Keqing—
There’s a short burst of laughter. Ganyu looks up to realize it’s her own, echoing through the room. She claps a hand over her mouth with a belated pang of guilt. She shouldn’t laugh at Keqing’s plight. But the imagery of Keqing doubled over on a toilet bowl and effectively incapacitated mid-meeting on the second day of her internship sits in such stark contrast with the haughty and put-together Keqing of this morning that another chuckle escapes past her fingers. Oh, she really, really shouldn’t laugh.
Half-amused and half-increasingly mortified at having stumbled upon this detail now, Ganyu wrinkles her nose and whips through the pages, sections at a time, as if physical distance would help her to forget it. Heavens forbid the mental image surface unbidden the next time she sees Keqing. At least she could rule out coconut cake and egg tarts, just to be safe.
As the amusement subsides and the embarrassment levels out to something more bearable, doubt begins to creep in, a warm, wringing discomfort in Ganyu’s gut. Maybe she’s going about this all wrong. Maybe a birthday celebration would be detrimental to whatever meager progress she’s made with Keqing. And even if it turned out well, Ganyu wonders if she can keep that momentum going.
There was a time when she could take these concerns to Guizhong, or to Zhongli, but that time has passed. Guizhong has gone. Zhongli would soon be leaving. She knows that she ought to wean herself off his guidance in the meantime.
Ganyu turns a page. What was it that Guizhong liked to say? She would smile and laugh fondly at the way humans looked to the adepti and other celestials as gods, wise and powerful and all-knowing. They could not be further from the truth, she would say—we only have this one life to their two. Ganyu sighs and turns another page.
The dull impact of something hard against wood is audible from halfway down the street from Keqing’s house when Ganyu comes for her visit five days later. The sound breaks up the quiet of the neighborhood in short, rhythmic thuds. There’s a brief silence, then the harsh scraping of steel over ground. Ganyu tilts her head curiously and continues on her way.
Three knocks on Keqing’s front door yield no answer, so Ganyu resettles her grip on the paper box that contains a small chiffon fruit cake, and follows the grating noise around the side of the house.
Keqing is there, faced away from Ganyu and bent over one of four holes in the ground. A small mound of displaced earth sits by each. One hole holds an unsecured wooden post, and other planks and boards and beams of various sizes lie stacked nearby. Keqing herself is busy shoveling, stopping every once in a while to check the depth of the hole.
“Good morning,” Ganyu calls in a brief pause between the scraping.
Keqing startles. She turns and her mouth sets into a blunt confused line when she spots Ganyu. Her eyes flicker down to the box in Ganyu’s hands, then back up. “Good morning,” she says. “Can I help you?”
Straight to the point. Ganyu puts on a small polite smile and nods at Keqing’s handiwork. “I should be asking you the same thing, I think.”
“No need.” Keqing declines the offer with a wave and props the shovel up against the side of the house. She comes toward the front. The knees of her jeans are streaked with dirt, and she dusts her hands off unceremoniously on the front of her t-shirt. “I remember you said you wouldn’t be coming for a week. You’re two days early.”
Ganyu thinks she might detect a tinge of disapproval in Keqing’s voice. She tries to ignore it. “Yes, I saw it was your birthday today,” she says, holding up the box. “I thought I would just come by early to celebrate with you.”
“Oh.” Keqing clears her throat. “Figures, you would have information like that. Uh, thanks.” She looks caught off guard, and Ganyu expects her to turn down the suggestion the same stubborn way she’d refused a soulmate assignment, but she surprises Ganyu with a curt nod instead. “Would you like to come inside?” she asks.
Inside the house, Keqing excuses herself quickly, citing her dirtied clothes, so Ganyu waits at the table by the window. She carefully unfolds the box and slides the cake out on its platter, then sets a single candle just off-center, lighting it with a match. From the rest of her brief foray into Keqing’s records, she’d concluded that Keqing’s tastes seemed rather safe, and so she had gone with an accordingly safe and simple choice. A small and careful gesture.
Ganyu has just turned to observing the changes to the house’s interior—mainly additions of new furniture and the beginnings of a book collection, when Keqing comes back down the stairs donning a fresh button-down shirt tucked into neatly cuffed pants.
Ganyu rises from her chair and offers a smile. “Happy birthday,” she says.
Keqing stops on the other side of the table. Ganyu watches her eyes roam over the cake, over the spiral layered arrangement of strawberry and kiwi and peach slices; the cheery red “happy birthday” scrawled across the center in loops of edible gel; the flame atop the candle flickering in feeble contrast to the already-sunny room. The corners of Keqing’s mouth twitch up in a slight but honest smile.
“Thank you,” she says again, looking back up. “You’re not going to sing for me, are you?”
Ganyu pauses. “Sing?”
Keqing blinks. “A birthday song.”
Once again, Ganyu finds herself without answer, unsure whether or not Keqing is joking. But Keqing’s brow arches up and further into incredulity and Ganyu has to conclude that she’s not.
“My apologies,” Ganyu says, “but I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about. Is this a new tradition?”
Keqing throws her another disbelieving look. “Not at all.” Ganyu waits for her to offer an explanation, or even a demonstration, but Keqing just says, “Well, I better take care of this before it melts,” and leans over quickly to blow the candle out. Then she jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the kitchen alcove. “Would you like a slice? I’ll grab plates.”
“Oh, right—yes, sure.”
Ganyu takes her seat again as Keqing fetches a knife and plates and forks. She cuts the cake into even eighths, then passes a piece over to Ganyu before sitting down with her own. Ganyu skims a slice of kiwi off the top of her cake. For a few moments, there’s only the clinking of cutlery against plates and—Ganyu hopes—satisfied silence.
Keqing speaks first. “You’re here for a check-in,” she states.
“Mhm.” Ganyu lowers her fork and nods. “Sorry to interrupt your work, by the way.”
“No worries. I always start early, to account for unplanned interruptions.”
Like this one, Ganyu notes silently. Aloud, she asks, “What were you building?”
“A deck,” Keqing replies. “That is allowed, isn't it?”
“Of course,” Ganyu says. “I may have forgotten to mention last time, but if you want any modifications to your house, you can contact Resident Services, and they’ll take care of it for you. The construction team here is fast,” she adds.
Keqing shakes her head. “It's fine, I was working on one at my house before I landed here. It was almost finished so”—she shrugs—“I wanted to see it through myself.”
“I see,” Ganyu murmurs in understanding. She’s heard of many new arrivals, particularly the unfortunate younger ones, chasing closure through the completion of tasks they’d left unfinished on Teyvat. “So… I take it you’ve been settling in well and finding everything alright?”
“Yeah. It’s not complicated to figure out.”
“Is there anything you want or need? Anything we can help you with?”
“Nothing that comes to mind. I assume faxing or mailing documents to the living is out of the question,” Keqing says.
Ganyu lets out a short apologetic chuckle. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Ah, well.”
“And have there been any changes since… the last time we met?”
The resigned amusement on Keqing’s face hardens into something closed again. “Look—I prefer to get to the point,” she says, “so if your purpose is to check in weekly to see if I’ve changed my mind over being assigned a soulmate, I’m not interested. I think it’ll be a waste of our time.”
There’s a brief stretch of quiet. Ganyu had indeed, in some awfully and naively optimistic corner of her mind, wondered about that. But she finds she doesn’t want to admit disappointment, to give Keqing the full satisfaction of it.
“I don’t necessarily mean you changing your mind,” she says. “Just things like mood changes, any new worries… anything you think might be important to bring up with me.”
Keqing’s cheeks seem to flush faintly, although her gaze remains fixed and level with Ganyu’s own. “Oh—no. There’s nothing.”
“Okay. Please feel free to let me know if something does come up.”
Keqing rubs her neck. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to handle all this through a call or something? A survey? I have a perfectly functional mailbox. You don’t have to come out here every week to be my therapist.”
Ganyu allows herself the barest sigh. “I understand that you have no interest in a soulmate, and I assure you, nobody will force one on you. But everyone receives at least a few check-in’s upon arrival, to make sure they’re settling in smoothly. It’s just protocol. If… you’d really like to opt out, then this can be my last visit.”
Part of Ganyu wants nothing more than to shrug off the responsibility. If Keqing ended up unhappy, or chose to Ascend and leave Celestia early, then so be it. But Ganyu knows, too, that if such a thing were to happen, she would count it and carry it as a failure for a long time.
Keqing is staring, perhaps calculating. “And if I don’t? Opt out, I mean?”
“Then I’ll continue visiting weekly, or we can meet elsewhere too. I’m not trying to be your therapist. You can just consider me a…”—Ganyu takes a short breath, to ready the word—“companion.”
Keqing frowns. “So like a temporary soulmate.”
Ganyu blinks. “Well—”
Keqing interrupts to add, “It’s just—you kept calling soulmates companions last time. Anyway, that’s unimportant. The visits, according to protocol—how long do you foresee them lasting?”
Ganyu bites back a quip and answers, “In these cases, about two months.”
“Alright,” Keqing decides. “I can agree to two months then.”
Ganyu isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, but she supposes she is at least grateful that they’ve come to a resolution. “Alright,” she echoes.
Keqing reaches out and helps herself to another slice of cake, mouth still set thoughtful and stern. And Ganyu suddenly, simultaneously, inconveniently, remembers two things: one, that it’s Keqing’s birthday today; and two, her unfortunate discovery of Keqing’s internship dinner mishap. Ganyu barely manages to lift the back of her hand to her mouth before a giggle escapes her.
Keqing pauses with a hand on her fork and looks at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ganyu answers quickly. It would be kindest to spare them both from embarrassment. “Is the cake to your liking?”
It takes a second, but Keqing’s eyes relax from their squint. She picks up her fork to take a bite. “Yeah, it’s good. Light, and not too sweet. Classic. Did you make it?”
“Ah, no. It’s from Heyu Bakery, in the Central Ward.”
Keqing takes another bite, appraising. “A Liyuen bakery?”
“Yes, the couple that runs it has been here for fifty or so years, I think,” Ganyu recalls.
Keqing nods slowly. “It reminds me of birthdays I had as a child.”
“Oh? Is that… a good thing?”
The curve of Keqing’s mouth has become rather wistful. “Yeah,” she says. “I got cakes like these three years in a row.”
Her words draws a realization to the surface of Ganyu’s mind. Of course—she should’ve thought of it sooner. “Do you have any family that’s passed away?” she asks. “Anyone that you’re close to?”
Keqing lowers her fork, gaze wide and unblinking. “Well, my grandpa on my dad’s side died when I was seven,” she says. “I don’t… have many clear memories with him, but he was definitely my favorite family member back then.”
“And your grandmother?”
“Never met her. She died before I was born.” She pauses, fiddling with the edge of her plate. “They would be here in Celestia, wouldn’t they?”
Ganyu nods and says, “If you’d like, I can check and let you know next week. And I can take you to see them.”
The furrow in Keqing’s brow is mild but indecipherable, and below it, her eyes are bright. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good,” she says, after a few beats. “I’d appreciate it.”
Ganyu smiles. “Of course.”
When she leaves Keqing’s house that day, Ganyu feels a little lighter, a little hopeful. Perhaps, if all goes well, Keqing would find whatever solace she might need with her grandparents. And Ganyu would try her best in the meantime, then leave it be; that’s what Guizhong would advise. This is, after all, a temporary arrangement. She could deal with that.