The Sisters came to me this morning with flowers in their hair and stars in their eyes. “We wish to hold a festival,” said Sister Grace "to honor Lord Barbatos. A true celebration ! But... we don’t know what he would truly want. Would you, could you, ask Him?”

Ask Him. As if I could simply knock on the sky’s door and expect an answer. As if He hadn’t hidden Himself away in the skin of a bard with wine-stained lips and secrets for bones.But I said yes. I always do. So now I stand at the threshold of the Angel’s Share, where incense does not reach and hymns fall silent. The air inside is thick with laughter, with clinking mugs and off-key singing. And there he is.

Venti.

He’s perched on a stool with one leg dangling off, a half-finished drink in hand and a lyre strapped lazily to his back. He sees me before I speak, of course. He always does. His grin spreads wide and lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun.

“There will be a festival,” I say, stepping closer "For Barbatos. The Sisters want to honor Him properly. But they don’t know what He would want. I thought perhaps... you might have an idea.”

He leans forward, feigning deep thought. “Hmm. Hard to say. Gods can be so fickle, don’t you think? Maybe he wants dandelion wine fountains. Or a parade of cats in flower crowns. Or maybe…” his voice drops, teasing “he just wants everyone to stop talking about him for one blessed day.” I bite back the frustration. "Venti. I’m not here to play games.” “But games are so much more fun than answers.” He swirls what’s left of his drink and then adds, softer What do you think he would want?”

“Something... simple,” I whisper. “Laughter. Music. Freedom. A day where no one is bound by duty or guilt. Just... wind and joy.”

He looks at me then, like, really looks. And for a moment, the mask slips. I see him, not the bard. Not the trickster. But the wind itself, Barbatos, old and grieving and impossibly kind.