The lantern market was held in the central square every year on the third night of the New Year season, and it was one of those occasions that the capital produced with the particular conviction of a city that knew how to perform celebration without requiring anyone to actually enjoy themselves.
And yet.
I had forgotten, in the weeks of work and worry and careful strategy, that a lantern market at night was genuinely beautiful. The hundreds of paper lanterns strung between the stalls and along the surrounding buildings cast a light that was warm and soft and slightly imprecise — the kind of light that made everything look like something worth looking at. The crowd was dense but not oppressive, moving with the particular slow rhythm of people who had come to linger rather than to arrive anywhere specific.
