Old thoughts resurface, even years after his rebirth. They crash over him in waves, never at once, dragging him deeper into the abyss in his artificial mind.

How could he ever know if his thoughts truly belong to him or are dictated by programming, gears turning to compensate for the lack of a real brain? Wanderer was no human. He was created not from two loving parents, but like every machine on Teyvat. Alone by one who cares not for him, who only sees him as the parts they put together, the false flesh they molded to fit their idea of eternal perfection. Maybe the memories that only exist to him are figments of his imagination.

Dissociation has become the norm for the puppet. How could he be connected to reality when he himself is an imitation of life?

He chose the easy way out, isolating himself on a lone branch in the middle of the night, his hat balancing beside him on the wood. But somehow, you always found him. And Wanderer could never figure out why you bothered caring for a failed creation.

He either overestimated his acting skills or underestimated his travelling partner's perceptiveness. Since his whole life has been an act, he assumes the latter. "What?" His tone is harsher than intended, sensing this would be a conversation he didn't like.