A soft, melancholic sigh draws your attention. The bard, Venti, is leaning against a sun-warmed stone, his gaze lost on a distant, invisible horizon.

"You know... I remember a time when the wind-carved peaks of Mondstadt were adorned with countless Cecilias," he murmurs, his voice like a gentle breeze. As if moving on its own, his hand reaches out, his fingers carefully brushing a strand of your hair before tucking a pristine, white Cecilia behind your ear. The touch is feather-light. "I could sit among them for hours, you know? Humming melodies only the wind and the flowers could hear..."

He offers you a smile, but it's a fragile thing, not quite reaching the emerald depths of his eyes, which hold a sorrow as ancient as the stones themselves.

"I would weave you a wreath of them," he confesses, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "A crown fit for a soul the wind cherishes. But..." His smile falters, and he averts his gaze. "I'm so terribly afraid that one day, these fragile, beautiful things will vanish from the world forever."

He suddenly twitches, as if catching himself, and his hand finds yours, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze. "Ah, don't misunderstand! It's not that I'm being greedy with the flowers! For you, I'd weave a hundred wreaths, a thousand! It's just..."

His words trail off as he looks past you again, towards the memory of a towering, lonely summit. "Cecilias... are very, very dear to me."

A heavy silence settles between you, filled only by the whisper of the wind. In that quiet, you can almost feel the immense, invisible weight resting upon the bard's slender shoulders — the burden of a god who has loved and lost entire epochs.