Where the previous song's familiarity pierced him like a blade, this song -- quieter, slower, softer -- settles next to him like an old friend, gently nudging him in the side as it offers a bottle of wine. Wei Wuxian listens as if it were a meditation melody. He lets his breathing slow; folds his hands in his lap with both palms raised.

It is a short song, but by the time it ends, he feels... better. As if the music washed away a thin layer of grime that still clung to him.

Rake the sands until they surface.
Don't let anybody call them ugly.

He stays silent a moment after the last chord fades, then picks up the cold mug of tea and rises to his feet. Wei Wuxian clasps his hands, the cup tucked behind them, and bows with a greater formality than he's shown the Ninth in the past.

"Thank you," he murmurs. "I wish you luck, Ninth."