You shine like gold in Morax’s memories.

Beautiful, clairvoyant, gold. Glistening like tears, dulling like death.

Gold, like the day you became a memory.

Gold, like the light flickering the lining of your form as you blinked twice, and never opened your eyes for your third.

Gold, like the ichor staining Morax’s blade, as he pulled it out of you, forcing down the bile rising in his throat.

Gold, like Zhongli remembers you, even now; seated at your grave, clutching onto a freshly boiled cup of tea that doesn’t warm him, as he draws his head down.

Gold, because it would’ve pleased you to be remembered in the same shade of Zhongli’s eyes when the light emanates from them.

Gold, because it had been your last wish.