At dusk the alley set out a tray of tickets no bigger than a petal. The paper lanterns waited in a polite row, each one holding its little glow like a guest who had remembered a coat. One by one the lights climbed inside, settled, and glanced toward the nearest bench as if asking whether the seat was free.
We asked at the kiosk. A woman with a thermos said they will not shine past the first turn until the bench has nodded. A boy on a scooter whispered that the smallest lantern asked for the ticket with the extra fold. In the park keeper’s book someone had written: Kindly do not hurry them. The bend is still saying good evening.
The next night the same walker came back and found a ticket left on the slats, a little warm, as if it had saved the first glow for the corner where she always sits.