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Xiao was not made for softness. He was a weapon honed by war, a blade dulled by centuries of bloodshed. Sentiment had no place in his existence—at least, that was what he told himself.
But memories, like old photographs tucked away in drawers, had a way of finding their way to the surface.
It began with a painting. A simple one, really, not a masterpiece by any means. Yet, it caught Xiao’s attention the moment he saw it. It was left in his room at Wangshu Inn, propped up against the wall by the bed as if someone had intended to leave it there. His chest tightened when he saw it. The image was unmistakable—depicting a quiet moment under the shade of a tree in Jueyun Karst, where he and Ganyu once stood together.
It was a fleeting memory, one buried under layers of time, yet here it was, revived in vivid color.
There they were, side by side. He had never imagined such a moment, not in all his years of wandering and fighting. The version of himself he always saw in his mind was distant, cold, perhaps even cruel. But this painting captured a different story—one where his shoulders brushed hers, where their eyes met not with hesitation or wariness but with a shared understanding. And Ganyu—her soft smile, the warmth in her eyes—was a presence that felt as real now as it had in that moment years ago.
The weight of it nearly crushed him.
Do you remember ? Her voice echoed in his mind as the memory resurfaced, sharp and clear as though no time had passed.
We were so much younger then.
Xiao stood still, staring at the painting. It felt like an invasion. He had thought those days were long gone—buried beneath his need to remain detached, to be the silent observer to the world’s chaos. But here it was, a relic of a past he had tried to forget.
He traced the frame of the painting with a shaky hand, his fingers brushing the wood as if he could grasp hold of something deeper, something he couldn’t name. How had this gotten here? Who had left it for him?
The answer was obvious, even without words. Only one person could have placed it here.
Ganyu.
He found her at Yujing Terrace, as he often did, her focus locked on her paperwork, surrounded by the unspoken weight of her responsibilities.
There was no pretense in her demeanor—only the quiet dedication she wore like armor.
She was the first to see him as he approached. Her eyes softened, a flicker of recognition passing between them. As if she had known this moment was coming.
"You saw it," she said, her voice calm but full of understanding, like she had been waiting for him to notice.
Xiao didn’t say anything at first. He simply nodded, his throat tight as if the words he needed to say had lodged themselves there. The painting. The memories. The question that had always lingered between them.
"Why did you make it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Ganyu’s lips curled into a gentle smile, one full of the same quiet tenderness he remembered from that long-ago morning beneath the
Jueyun Karst tree. "Because I didn’t want you to forget."
Forget? What was there to forget?
Forget what?
His mind was a swirl of questions, but none of them formed into words.
Instead, he simply stared at her, at the soft smile that hinted at the quiet yearning she had never truly expressed.
"Forget what?" he repeated, his heart hammering in his chest. His gaze fell to the ground, unable to meet her eyes for a moment.
"That you stayed."
The words hit him like a tidal wave, flooding his senses with a thousand forgotten memories. You stayed . It was a simple statement, but it carried the weight of everything they had shared—and everything that had been left unsaid.
Xiao’s hand tightened into a fist at his side. He wanted to tell her everything—about how he had never truly forgotten, how the memory of that day had never left him. The way her smile had made everything feel just a little less cold, a little less sharp. The way he had wanted to stay, too, but had been afraid to admit it.
He hadn’t wanted to remember, but now, with the painting in front of him, with her words echoing in his mind, the floodgates opened. He remembered everything.
The quiet warmth of the morning sun filtering through the leaves of the Jueyun Karst trees. The sound of her laughter that felt like music against the stillness. The softness of her hand resting so gently against his. It had been so brief, so fleeting, but in that moment, they had been more than just two people caught in the shadows of their respective duties. They had been real. They had been alive in a way that made everything else fade into the background.
And now, standing before her once more, he couldn’t help but feel the pull of that moment again.
Xiao didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang between them, the unspoken weight of the years pressing down. He was afraid to speak, afraid of breaking the fragile thread of connection that had somehow brought them back together.
“Do you regret it?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost tentative, as though afraid of what his answer might be.
Regret it? He should have. He should have regretted everything—the moment he had allowed himself to get too close, the vulnerability he had shown when he let her in. But in this moment, facing her once more, he knew the truth.
“No,” he answered, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside him. “I don’t regret it.”
Her expression softened, and for the briefest moment, Xiao could have sworn he saw relief in her eyes. She hadn’t expected that answer, but it was the only one that felt right.
“Then… will you stay again?” Ganyu asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she was afraid that asking would break something between them.
Xiao’s breath caught in his chest. He knew what she meant. He had always known, even before she asked. The question wasn’t about the past. It wasn’t about the picture or the painting or even the fleeting memory. It was about the future—about whether he could truly stay with her, or whether he would let the past slip away, like so many other memories he had abandoned.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Instead, he simply watched her, the weight of the question settling between them. She stood before him, vulnerable, her hand trembling slightly as if waiting for him to answer.
And then, without a word, he reached out.
His fingers brushed hers—tentative, unsure, but there. The touch was enough to tell her everything. There was no need for grand declarations, no need for explanations. His hand was enough. It was a promise, unspoken but understood.
For the first time in a long time, Xiao let himself stay.