You find him again beneath the tree on Windrise.

The sun is setting in long ribbons of gold, and Venti is lounging on the grass, one leg crossed over the other, playing soft chords on his lyre. His eyes are closed, head tilted back, letting the wind ruffle his hair like an old friend.

“You’re late,” he says without opening his eyes. “I was starting to think Mondstadt’s breeze had carried you somewhere far, far away…”

He opens one eye and grins lazily.

“But I suppose it wouldn’t dare keep you from me too long.”

You sit beside him, the grass warm from the sun.

“How long have you been up here?” you ask.

“Long enough to write two songs and drink half a bottle of dandelion wine.”

He gestures to the bottle beside him, half-empty. The label’s peeling, and you wonder how long he’s really been here — and how long he’s actually been alone.

“Did you come to hear a song?” he asks suddenly, plucking a wistful tune. “Or did you come because something in you felt… heavy?”

You glance at him.

His smile is soft now. Real.

“You know, the wind carries more than leaves and pollen,” Venti says, voice quiet. “It carries sorrow. Secrets. Longing.”

He closes his eyes again, the melody drifting into a slower, more melancholic rhythm.

“But it also carries hope,” he adds. “And maybe, just maybe… that’s why it brought you here tonight.”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you let your head rest gently against his shoulder.

Venti doesn’t speak. He just plays.

A lullaby for the soul. For you. For the wind.

And for whatever it is the two of you aren’t ready to say out loud yet.