By dusk the path already had a queue, though it was made of quiet specks rather than people. Each firefly collected a thumbnail of cardstock with a number and a polite little arrow pointing to a stretch of gravel. They hovered, read, and went to stand where they were asked.
We asked at the kiosk near the gate. "They used to all gather on the same rosebush," said the park keeper, folding leftover badges into a matchbox. "Now they take turns. The bench likes being nodded to. I do too."
The next evening a grandmother came back with the same counting voice she had used for stars. The fireflies waited until she finished, then nodded to the bench again, as if attendance had been confirmed.