A Taste of Kindness

The second basket appeared exactly a week after the first, nestled against the base of the Windrise statue as if it had grown there overnight. Jean spotted it from the path, her boots still wet with morning dew from her patrol. The sight sent an unexpected warmth through her chest, even before she knelt to inspect the contents. This time, the cloth was a soft cream linen, tied with a simple leather cord. Inside: a ceramic flask of still-warm apple cider, a small loaf of crusty bread studded with rosemary and sea salt, and a tiny jar of honey. The note was tucked beneath the bread, folded neatly. Jean unfolded it with careful fingers. "For the Acting Grand Master. You work too hard. Remember to breathe. — A Friend" The handwriting was firm, deliberate—not elegant, but steady. Jean read it twice, then pressed the note between the pages of her patrol log. She didn't know why she felt the need to keep it. Perhaps because kindness this quiet was rare in Mondstadt's busy streets. The cider was still steaming when she poured a cup, sitting on the grass by the statue's feet. The apple was tart and sweet, with a hint of cinnamon and something spice-like she couldn't name. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth settle in her stomach. For a moment, the weight of endless paperwork and diplomatic complaints seemed distant. She had to know who this was. --- The Dawn Winery kitchen smelled of yeast and sugar. Diluc wiped his hands on his apron, frowning at the batch of sunsettia tarts cooling on the windowsill. He'd already packed the basket for next week—poached eggs in a herb broth, a thermos of dandelion tea, and a fresh roll of butter. But the tarts were for himself. Mostly. "More deliveries, Master Diluc?" Adeline asked from the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. "Don't start." "I'm not starting anything. I'm merely noting that the kitchen has been unusually productive lately. And that you've been leaving before dawn on Tuesdays." Diluc turned, leveling her with a flat stare. Adeline smiled serenely. She had known him too long to be intimidated. "It's none of your concern," he said. "Of course not. But if the Acting Grand Master happens to ask me who's been leaving her lunches at Windrise, I will have to plead ignorance." The tart in Diluc's hand nearly cracked. He set it down carefully. "She won't ask." "She might. She's persistent." Diluc said nothing, but his jaw tightened. He didn't want thanks. He didn't want attention. He'd seen the way Jean pushed herself—barely sleeping, eating cold sandwiches at her desk while the city slept soundly. It wasn't charity. It was... recognition. A reminder that someone noticed. That she didn't have to carry everything alone. He finished packing the basket for next week, wrapped each item in cloth, and stowed it in the cool cellar. Adeline watched him but mercifully said nothing more. --- Thursday afternoon, Jean stood in the library, a stack of reports in one hand and the first note in the other. Lisa lounged in her chair, a book open on her lap but her eyes sharp. "So you've got a secret admirer," Lisa said, her voice light. "How romantic." "It's not romantic. It's—" Jean hesitated. "Thoughtful. But strange. The tea was exactly how I take it. The pastries were fresh. Someone knows my schedule." "Maybe it's someone who cares about you." Jean flushed. "I just want to know who it is. To thank them properly. Or ask them to stop, if it's becoming a burden." "Burden? Leaving a basket once a week is hardly a chore. Though I have to say, that apple cider smelled divine. I happened to pass by the kitchen when you brought it in." Jean's eyes narrowed. "You didn't...?" "Oh no, darling. I can't boil water without supervision. But I have my theories." "Tell me." Lisa smiled, a slow, knowing thing. "The person who leaves those gifts is someone who knows how to cook well—professionally, even. Someone who has access to premium ingredients. Someone who values privacy." Jean thought of the winery. Of a certain red-haired owner who always seemed to know when she was overworked. Who never stayed for banquets but always sent a bottle of fine wine. Who had, on more than one occasion, left a plate of grilled fish outside her office door after a late-night meeting, with no note. "No," she said. "It can't be." "Can't be who?" Lisa's smile widened. Jean shook her head, gathering her reports. "I'll figure it out myself." --- The next Tuesday, she decided to intercept. She finished her patrol an hour early and positioned herself behind a large oak near the statue, hidden by shadow and leaves. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky in soft gold. Footsteps. Light, deliberate. Jean held her breath. A figure approached, carrying a basket. Tall. Dark hair. A familiar silhouette. Diluc. He set the basket down with care, placed a folded note on top, and straightened. For a moment, he stood still, looking at the statue. Then he turned and walked away, his steps unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. Jean's heart pounded. She waited until he was out of sight, then emerged from the trees. The basket was warm. The note read: "You looked tired yesterday. Don't forget to eat. — A.F." A.F. Anonymous Friend. Or perhaps: A. Ragnvindr. She picked up the basket and smiled. She wouldn't confront him. Not yet. But she would keep every note, and she would find a way to thank him—in a way he couldn't refuse.