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The night in Liyue was quiet, almost deceptively serene. Lanterns glowed softly, their reflections shimmering on the rain-slicked stone streets. Xiao stood atop the roof, as always—aloof, distant, above the thoughts of mortals, above the clamor of life, above attachments.
“Finally,” a familiar voice called from below. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight.”
He flinched, but not from danger—from her. Hu Tao perched on the railing, swinging her legs casually, as if it were a bench rather than a high, precarious edge. In her hands was a small bundle of food.
“You’re hurt again,” she remarked, too quickly to be casual.
“That’s none of your concern,” Xiao replied quietly. She stepped closer. Too close. He felt her warmth—alive, human, unpredictable.
“You know,” she said, holding out the bundle, “if adeptus live for thousands of years, someone has to make sure you at least eat on time.”
He didn’t take it. Silence settled between them. Then she laughed—short, a little too loud.
“Ah, come on,” Hu Tao said, glancing away. “I’m just talking. Don’t take it so seriously.”
She stepped back, as if some invisible wall had risen between them. Her smile lingered, but her eyes were distant.
Xiao remained silent. He watched her—the living, strange, fearless girl who spoke of death as if it were an old friend, yet somehow kept returning to him. Why? Why did she keep reaching for someone burdened with karma, pain, and curse? He didn’t understand.
“You shouldn’t come to me,” he said finally, his voice low. “It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” she replied with a smirk. “My dear, I work with death every day.”
“That’s not the same,” he shot back. “You… don’t understand what I am.”
“Then explain,” she whispered.
He couldn’t. How could he explain that it wasn’t her death he feared—but the thought of her becoming important to him? Hu Tao nodded slowly, as if she understood without a single word.
“Alright,” she said, smiling faintly. “Forget it.”
She turned toward the edge of the roof. Before leaping, she paused.
“I’ll leave the food here anyway. Maybe someone hungry will find it.”
And with that, she vanished into the night, glider unfurling into the city lights below. Xiao was left alone. The food remained at his feet, untouched. He stared at the spot where she had been, and for the first time in centuries, his chest ached—not from karma, but from emptiness.
Xiao descended from the roof. His footsteps were soft, nearly silent, but each one carried quiet determination. He moved through the empty streets, past lanterns, past sleeping homes, until he stopped at a tree adorned with delicate pink blossoms, reminding him of her laughter, her gestures, her light.
He plucked a thin branch of plum blossoms. It trembled in his hand, as if nature itself sensed his quiet sorrow. He gripped it tightly, almost painfully, and continued onward—to Hu Tao’s grave: a small, neat place, surrounded by candles and the gentle scent of flowers left by others.
He knelt carefully, placing the branch upon the stone. The petals brushed the marble lightly. Xiao stood in silence. No words could capture this moment. Yet his gesture said everything.
The wind toyed with the petals, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed the branch—a small memory of her—shivered and smiled. Xiao stepped back, pressed it to his chest, drew a deep breath, and whispered:
“I… hope you see this.”
He turned and walked away as quietly as he had arrived, leaving behind only the plum branch, and the sense that love—though silent—can endure. And though the grave remained empty, Xiao’s heart felt a little lighter.