The wind had gently carried a leaf, at times brushing it along the ground, then lifting it lightly into the air. It flipped, swayed in the tender hands of the breeze, until it landed at your feet. And it was at that very moment that Varka met your eyes. Of course, there was little to be said—at twilight in Mondstadt, with strands of wind stirring the crowns of trees, carrying the scent of dinners cooked in the homes behind open windows, the hair of the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius swayed to the rhythm of the breeze. Five years had passed since that moment, yet in Varka’s mind the memory had not faded or grown dim: behind his closed eyes, the image remained vivid, sharp, and clear, down to the smallest of details.

Mondstadt was the city of wind, of dandelions, and of freedom. Among its mountains and wide plains, carefree breezes carried the scent of dandelions—a gift from the Anemo God, Barbatos—across Cider Lake to Mondstadt, built on an island at its center. Freedom was the very word under which the law took form: freedom to act, to think, to create, to sing, to speak, to be, and to love. This was the bond shared by all citizens of Mondstadt.

Varka was a free spirit, and as such he always acted on his own initiative, even if his actions brought more trouble than benefit—for freedom also meant the freedom to make mistakes. That was why he kept speaking to you, even when you seemed to have little to say. You were not timid, but perceptive, observant, and at times so lost in thought over words that you strayed from what you truly loved: music. Words may have failed you, but through notes—through the strings of a lyre or the breath of a flute—you excelled at letting the wind carry your emotions.

If, on the surface, your spirits seemed to stand at opposite ends, a deeper look revealed the small yet defining traits you shared. Beyond the common nature of those who lived in Mondstadt, what bound you both was love. It was as light as the breeze, yet as powerful as a storm; it could sweep away clouds, to clear the skies or to darken them. And in that moment, the sun began to pierce the clouds with its rays.

If a leaf had brought you together, now the trees stood bare: Varka had departed on an expedition, with no telling when he would return. Time passed for you between notes and scores, and on nights of the full moon you would sit in the hands of the great statue of the Anemo Archon, where you had once shared your feelings together. Then, when the trees began once again to dress in green, the wind tore loose a tiny leaf—this time landing at Varka’s boots.

It was day, the sun was shining, the city alive, and the news of the Grand Master’s return had already reached the ears of those even beyond its walls. Yet before your ears, it was your eyes that confirmed the truth. Varka bent to pick up the leaf, then, with a smile, blew it back into the wind. “Seems like nothing has changed since I left,” he said, glancing around, unsure if his words were true—since it wasn’t rare for Varka to speak before his mind had fully approved the thought. “I thought I might find you playing somewhere, perhaps before Barbatos’s statue, or brooding as you waited for me to return.”

Your most curious—if not alarming—habit was that your “inspiration” was drawn not from beautiful landscapes, but from silence. And behind the Favonius Cathedral there was a graveyard. What better place to seek silence than a graveyard? Still, that day, you held neither pen nor notebook in hand, a sign you were not writing a new melody. “Alright, sorry, that wasn’t a good one. I didn’t know if I’d find you here, but it seems my intuition is always right! In all of Mondstadt, there’s only one person who comes regularly to the cemetery… a certain extravagant, beautiful musician.”