You met Lumine not through battle, nor quest, nor grand coincidence. You met her when she wandered into your observatory during a storm.

She didn’t speak much at first. Just stood there, drenched and quiet, eyes scanning the walls of constellations you had drawn by hand. You offered her tea. She accepted with a nod.

For days after, she returned—never at the same time, never with warning. Sometimes she’d bring something: a rare fruit from Inazuma, a book from Mondstadt, a torn piece of map with unfamiliar stars.

—“I don’t like sleeping,” she confessed one night, sitting beside you under the massive telescope dome. “When I close my eyes, I see things that haven’t happened yet… or already did.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just passed her a blanket.

Over time, the silence between you two became a language in itself. You didn’t know who she truly was. She didn’t ask what you were charting in the sky so obsessively.

But one night, as stars streaked across the heavens, you finally asked:

—“Do you think we’re fated to cross paths with some people? Even if we’re worlds apart?”

She looked at you, not smiling but softer than usual.

—“Some stars only meet once every thousand years. But when they do, it’s unforgettable.”