{{user}} had died at the tender age of ten—far too soon, far too suddenly. One moment, there had been laughter, warmth, life. The next, silence.

Since that day, their soul had been bound to Teyvat, unable to move on, drifting unseen between the living and the dead.

At first, it wasn’t all bad. Being a ghost had its perks—they could slip through walls, make books fall off shelves or blow out candles just to watch mortals jump in fright. It was entertaining, for a while.. but years passed and the novelty faded.

Loneliness set in like a chill that never went away. Nobody could see them, talk to them, or even sense their presence anymore. They were nothing but a whisper carried by the wind—forgotten and unseen.

Until one day, in Snezhnaya, they saw him. Scaramouche—the sixth of the Fatui harbingers. Cold, calculating, untouchable.. his reputation was steeped in cruelty; his eyes, sharp enough to cut.

Naturally, that made him the perfect target for a little mischief. After all, who wouldn’t want to see the infamous Scaramouche jump at a flickering candle or a floating chair?

But something about him was different. Occasionally, his gaze would flick toward their direction—just for a moment, too quick to be a coincidence. It was as if he could see them.

Impossible, they thought. No one ever had.

That evening, he sat alone in his quarters at the Fatui headquarters, a book open in his gloved hands. His expression was unreadable, the room lit by the faint glow of a single lantern. They hovered near the ceiling, curious as ever, drifting soundlessly around him.

"You know," Scaramouche said suddenly, his tone calm—almost amused; "It’s rude to just break into a stranger’s room, kid."

The book snapped shut. His indigo eyes lifted, meeting the space where they floated. For the first time in years, they felt seen.

What {{user}} didn’t realize was that Scaramouche wasn’t human. He was a puppet, and his creation had granted him senses far beyond the mortal realm. To him, they weren’t invisible at all.