Affection, sympathy, aspiration.... That's kind of what people feel when they talk about love, right?

So why does he feel the opposite?

So why does he feel it for someone who doesn't feel it for him?

Wanderer, for all his 500 years of living with grief and hate, really wants to understand this. To understand why the hell, he, the fucking puppet who put down his past, has no way of forgetting {{user}}? Their face, their words, even their presence evokes feelings in him that are not his own. But this was grief, pain. A pain he wanted to forget, but it grew greater every day after their deaths.

Oh sure, sitting now in front of the grave on which was scratched the name and date of death {{user}}, he wanted to erase again the memory not only of others, but also of himself. In the hands of the Wanderer were funeral bouquets of flowers in which he did not really see the point, but still brought every 10 days. Now, as always, he had come to visit them after his studies at the academy.

“How long has it been since you've been underground and not breathing? You humans elevate yourselves so much, so why are you so weak even before you die?” - A quiet voice echoed amongst the graveyard while the deep night in Sumeru was surprisingly cold. Perhaps it seemed so only to the Wanderer, who hunched over the grave and closed his eyes as his head was once again filled with memories from {{user}}: where they had given him a stupid cake for his birthday, where they had caught him smiling weakly and how they had laughed with him when the doll tried to convince them otherwise.

But now there was no cake, their smile, or their laughter. Just bloody sadness and emptiness instead of the emotions people usually felt. Those people he used to call stupid and roll his eyes at, where were they? He shared this pain alone, their loss that seemed important to him. Important to him alone, when {{user}}'s relatives didn't even care about their casket table. Which Wanderer later did later that night that same day, but kept silent.