Twilight bathed the streets in a soft glow, suspended between gold and indigo. Red, blue, green, and golden lanterns slowly rose from one end of the capital to the other, strung along wires that stretched over the alleys like a domesticated constellation. They swayed gently in the warm breeze, their light dancing over faces and cobblestones.

Xu Moyao and Li Wuxin walked side by side, their steps slowed by the crowd and the almost unreal atmosphere of the festival. The garments gifted by the old seamstress rippled with their movements, catching the flickering glow of the hanging lanterns. People sometimes cast curious glances their way—some admiring, others intrigued.

"Do you regret not protesting more strongly?" Xu Moyao asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Li Wuxin glanced at his outfit and shrugged with studied nonchalance. "I console myself by thinking I radiate a kind of tragic dignity."

"Tragic isn’t the word I would’ve chosen," Xu Moyao replied. "But radiant, absolutely."

The scent of the festival wrapped around them with every step: burnt sugar, rice powder, smoldering wood, and the first plum blossoms of the season. Children ran everywhere, holding lanterns shaped like fish, tigers, and cranes. Wandering musicians played plucked strings, clear flutes, and drums that beat in slow, festive rhythms.

They stopped before a calligraphy stand where wishes were written with brushes onto small red cards and hung from willow branches or paper lanterns.

"Want to write one?" Li Wuxin offered, leaning over the display. "It's tradition."

Xu Moyao took the brush without replying and traced a few characters with almost meditative slowness. He didn’t show the paper to Li Wuxin, but folded it carefully and handed it to the woman at the stall, who tied it to a white paper lantern.

"You're not going to show me?" asked Li Wuxin, curious.

"It's supposed to come true, isn’t it? So it has to stay secret."

Li Wuxin wrote his in silence. He hesitated for a long time over the last stroke, then finally drew it with a sharp flick. When he handed the paper to the calligrapher, Xu Moyao tried to sneak a glance, but the physician pushed him back with a finger to the forehead.

They resumed their stroll, shoulders brushing now and then in the thick crowd. A little girl watched them for a moment from the next stall, tightly holding a rabbit-shaped lantern. Her hair was braided, and she wore a pale pink dress adorned with ribbons.

She suddenly approached, eyes wide and sparkling.

"Sir? Ma’am?" she addressed them.

A pause.

Li Wuxin froze. Xu Moyao blinked.

"…Ma’am?" Xu Moyao echoed, his voice caught between surprise and amusement.

The little girl pointed at their outfits. "My grandma says when two grown-ups wear matching clothes, it’s because they’re in love. Are you in love? Are you going to get married?"

Li Wuxin turned crimson. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then shook his head, unable to answer.

Xu Moyao crouched to her level. "That’s very observant of you," he said with a smile. "But no, we’re not married."

"Not yet?" she asked, hopeful.

"Not yet," Xu Moyao repeated without thinking.

Behind him, Li Wuxin stifled a half-choked cough.

The girl nodded, satisfied, and skipped away, her rabbit-lantern bouncing behind her. Xu Moyao stood, looking innocently smug.

"You didn’t have to say ‘not yet.’"

"I didn’t want to disappoint her," the general replied.

They moved away from the stand, Xu Moyao’s quiet laughter trailing behind their steps. The streets were slowly emptying as the crowd gathered on the riverbanks for the great lantern release. Hundreds—thousands—of paper lights stood ready to rise into the sky.

The river shimmered like obsidian glass. On its banks, floating lanterns were already drifting lazily among the reeds. Priests chanted prayers in deep voices, while families tied wishes or names to their waterborne lights.

Li Wuxin stopped, eyes fixed on the shimmering reflections in the water.

"It’s even more beautiful than I remember."

Xu Moyao watched him. The lantern light danced on the physician’s features, softening his profile in a rare moment of quiet.

"Shall we release it together?"

Xu Moyao nodded. The soft heat slowly inflated the paper, and when they let go, it rose gently, wobbling at first, then lifting straight toward the stars.

Around them, hundreds of lanterns followed suit, rising into the sky like a silent army of dancing lights.

Li Wuxin watched their ascent, holding his breath.

"Did you make a wish?" he asked softly.

"Maybe," Xu Moyao replied. "You?"

Li Wuxin smiled. "Maybe."

They stayed there for a long moment, saying nothing, watching the illuminated sky, the murmurs of the crowd blending with the distant song of a shamisen. A gentle stillness wrapped around them—the kind that makes you wish time could pause.

Night had fallen, cloaking the capital in soft darkness, while the streets glowed with a thousand lights. Lanterns of every shape and color floated above the alleys, suspended on invisible wires, forming a luminous canopy above the enchanted crowd. The Lantern Festival was in full swing, marking the end of Lunar New Year celebrations.

Xu Moyao and Li Wuxin wandered among the joyful throng. Their golden lotus brooches gleamed in the lantern light, drawing curious and admiring glances.

They stopped at a stall offering riddles written on lanterns. Li Wuxin read aloud: “I am as light as a feather, but even the strongest man cannot hold me. What am I?”

Xu Moyao smiled, eyes sparkling. "The wind."

"Exactly," Li Wuxin said, impressed.

Farther ahead, dancers in dragon and lion costumes performed rhythmic choreographies, accompanied by drumbeats and cymbal chimes. Children laughed and clapped, their faces lit with wonder.

Drawn by the delicious aromas, the two men approached a street food stand. The warmth of the coals and the crackling of oil offered a comforting contrast to the evening’s chill. The cook, a stocky man with a broad smile, handed them two sizzling skewers.

They first tasted sticky rice balls filled with black sesame—soft, warm dough that melted on the tongue. Li Wuxin, surprised by the texture, closed his eyes briefly. "It almost feels like a dessert… but savory."

Xu Moyao chuckled at the reaction. "We often eat them during the Lantern Festival—to symbolize family reunion."

"Family?" Li Wuxin asked, light-hearted, but with an undertone that hinted at a deeper question.

Xu Moyao didn’t answer right away. He picked up a skewer of marinated meat, the scent of spices thick between them. He offered a bite to Li Wuxin, who hesitated for a moment, then accepted silently, his lips nearly grazing the general’s fingers.

Around them, the city shimmered. Miniature mooncakes—smaller than the autumn ones, but just as delicate—were displayed on a nearby table: soft pastry with lotus seed, red bean, or rose-scented fillings. Xu Moyao took one, cut it in half, and offered a piece to Li Wuxin. This time, the latter took a moment to examine it.

"Are you trying to bribe me with sweets?" he murmured, one corner of his mouth lifting.

"Is it working?"

Li Wuxin let out a genuine laugh, short but bright. He bit into the cake with visible delight. "Sadly… a little."

They left the stand with empty hands but full stomachs. Festival sounds filled the air: music, laughter, distant drums, and the quiet murmurs of couples under the lanterns. They paused away from the crowd, beneath an old cherry tree whose first blossoms had begun to bloom early.

For a moment, they stood side by side, gazing up at the lights strung between the branches, at the gentle sway of the lanterns breathing like tiny hearts in the breeze.

"Do you feel at ease here… in Moying?" Li Wuxin asked softly.

Xu Moyao turned to him. He didn’t answer right away.

"I think so…" Xu Moyao murmured, eyes drifting to the black ripples of the river.

The crowd’s murmur reached them faintly, muffled by the river’s calm surface. Somewhere, the shamisen still played—its slow, nostalgic tune tugging the stars closer.

Families released their lanterns, gently, with the solemn gestures reserved for goodbyes or promises. The flames flickered inside the paper globes, ready to leave the earth.

Li Wuxin bent down and picked up a white lantern from the bank. He examined its paper body, searching for a place to affix a wish.

"Want to release another one?" Xu Moyao asked quietly, not looking at him.

Then, with a quiet motion, Li Wuxin pulled out a small folded slip of paper from his sleeve. He handed it to Xu Moyao.

"Will you tie it on for me?"

Xu Moyao fastened the paper to the top of the lantern, just above the wick. He didn’t ask what Li Wuxin had written. Not this time.

They lit the lantern together, Xu Moyao shielding the flame from the wind with his palm, Li Wuxin holding the paper body steady until the warm air slowly inflated it.

It rose with a breath, wavering, then soared gracefully toward the starry vault, soon joined by dozens of others.

Xu Moyao watched its ascent, his face bathed in the soft orange glow.

"You know," Li Wuxin said after a long silence, "when I was little, I used to think the lanterns became stars. That they rose so high, they got stuck up there forever."

Xu Moyao turned to him with a calm look. "That would be a beautiful way"

Around them, the sky slowly filled with lanterns, like a reversed rain of light. Wishes, farewells, prayers, and hopes floated above the capital, silent sparks of the intimate offered to the vastness.

The river stretched out like a ribbon of dark velvet, scattered with drifting lights. Lanterns floated lazily on the surface, brushing against reeds, against trembling star-reflections.

Xu Moyao and Li Wuxin approached a small dock, hidden behind a row of wisteria. An old boatman, seated quietly on a wooden stool, looked up at them without a word, then motioned them over. They stepped into a low, near-silent skiff with lacquered sides and a gentle, steady sway.

The boatman pushed them off the dock with a long pole. The world slipped away.

The sounds of the festival grew muffled, as if swallowed by the water. Only the soft lapping of the river and the light wind remained, lifting now and then a strand of hair, a fold of cloth, a breath.

Xu Moyao rested a hand on the boat’s edge. Li Wuxin, seated opposite, half-watched him. A white lantern drifted past them, its flickering flame casting gold and amber reflections across their faces.

“Do you think some lanterns come back?” Li Wuxin asked, almost to himself.

Xu Moyao followed the lantern with his gaze. “Maybe the ones that never found where they were meant to go.”

A silence settled between them—not awkward, but full. The kind of silence filled with heartbeats, a little too loud.

Li Wuxin sat up slightly. He reached for a lantern that had caught against the side of the boat. The paper was a little crumpled, the wish still tied securely at the base.

He read it out softly:
“May the lost find peace, and the living find the courage to remain.”

Xu Moyao lowered his eyes, his face half-draped in shadow. He murmured, “That’s a wish I could’ve written.”

The physician gently folded the paper again, retied it to the lantern, and set it back on the water. It drifted away, rocking gently, as though uncertain which way to go.

The skiff continued downriver, slowly, in rhythm with the boatman’s pole. He still hadn’t spoken, as if he were part of the scenery—a necessary shadow between them and the silence of the river.

A moment later, Li Wuxin asked,
“Do you regret… staying here?”

Xu Moyao looked up. His eyes held that soft light no torch could imitate. He shook his head.
“Not tonight.”

The boatman, without a word, began the return journey. The lanterns slipped away behind them, tiny constellations drifting on the water.

When the boat docked again, Xu Moyao held out his hand to help Li Wuxin disembark. The touch was brief. But their eyes lingered just a moment too long.

The night wasn’t over. But something, perhaps, had begun to drift in the right direction.