Chapter 21: The Quiet Festival

Ren hadn't planned to attend the festival. He hadn’t even known one was happening until he stumbled upon it by accident—bright paper lanterns strung between wooden stalls, their soft glow cutting through the night like flickers of memory. The streets were alive with gentle chatter, the distant sounds of music drifting through the air.

He stood at the edge of the festival, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, unsure whether to step in or turn back. But something about the quiet hum of the place drew him closer—like a song he half-remembered but couldn’t stop humming.

Ren exhaled slowly, letting the soft sounds of the festival pull him in. There were no crowds, no loud voices or blaring music. Just small pockets of life—people chatting over bowls of steaming noodles, children laughing as they chased glowing fireflies, couples wandering hand-in-hand beneath the lanterns.

It was peaceful. And that, Ren thought, was exactly what he needed.

He wandered between the stalls, the smell of roasted chestnuts and grilled skewers filling the cool night air. Everywhere he looked, there was something gentle—soft smiles exchanged between strangers, warm conversations shared over cups of tea.

For once, Ren didn’t feel out of place. He wasn’t chasing anything here. He wasn’t trying to be anyone other than who he was. He was just... part of the moment, drifting quietly through it like everyone else.

He stopped at a small booth tucked near the edge of the festival, where an elderly woman was arranging delicate paper cranes on a wooden table. Each crane was folded from colorful scraps—bright reds, deep blues, soft golds—and they shimmered under the glow of the lanterns.

Ren tilted his head, intrigued. “They’re beautiful.”

The woman glanced up, her wrinkled face creasing into a warm smile. “Thank you, dear. Would you like one?”

Ren hesitated. “Oh, I don’t think I—”

“Nonsense,” the woman said, waving her hand dismissively. “Everyone leaves with a crane. It’s tradition.”

Ren smiled, amused by her insistence. “What’s the tradition for?”

The woman chuckled softly. “Ah, traditions don’t always need reasons, do they? But if you’d like one—” She picked up a delicate red crane, holding it out to him. “This one is for you.”

Ren accepted it carefully, cradling the tiny bird in his palm. It was lighter than he expected, its folded wings fluttering slightly in the breeze.

“Thank you,” he said, tucking the crane gently into his jacket pocket.

The woman gave him a kind smile. “No matter where life takes you, it’s good to carry a little piece of peace with you.”

Ren wandered further into the festival, the paper crane warm against his chest. The quiet joy around him felt contagious, and for the first time in a long while, Ren let himself relax. He wasn’t thinking about timelines or second chances or the things he hadn’t gotten right. He was just... here.

He paused by a lantern-lit pond, where koi fish glided gracefully beneath the water’s surface, their scales glowing like liquid gold. A few festival-goers stood nearby, dropping small wooden boats into the water—tiny vessels carrying paper wishes illuminated by flickering candles.

One of the boats floated toward Ren, its candle casting a warm glow across his face. He crouched by the water, watching as the little boat drifted lazily across the pond, carrying someone’s hope out into the night.

A voice spoke softly beside him. “Do you want to make a wish?”

Ren looked up to find a girl around his age standing next to him, holding a small wooden boat of her own. She wore a light scarf draped over her shoulders, her expression kind but curious. There was no expectation in her gaze—just quiet interest, as if she were offering him a moment without strings attached.

Ren smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I don’t think I know what to wish for.”

The girl knelt beside him, setting her boat carefully on the water. “That’s okay. Sometimes the wish isn’t the important part. It’s just... letting it go.”

Ren considered her words, watching as her boat drifted slowly into the center of the pond. Its little candle flickered, but the flame held steady, glowing softly against the night.

“You don’t make wishes often, do you?” the girl asked, her tone playful but not unkind.

Ren chuckled softly. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “But that’s okay. Some people carry their wishes quietly. There’s no wrong way to do it.”

Ren glanced at the water again, the glow of the candlelight reflected in the smooth surface. Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t about finding the perfect wish—just about letting something go, even if only for a moment.

The girl stood, brushing off her knees. “You should try it sometime,” she said, giving him a gentle smile. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. Just... whenever you’re ready.”

Ren nodded, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over him. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

The girl gave him a small wave before disappearing into the crowd, her scarf trailing behind her like a ribbon caught in the breeze. Ren watched her go, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He stood by the pond a little longer, listening to the soft sounds of the festival—the murmur of conversations, the faint clink of cups, the distant notes of a flute drifting through the air. He didn’t make a wish, but that was okay. The moment itself felt like enough.

Eventually, Ren wandered back toward the entrance of the festival. The night was beginning to wind down, the lanterns swaying gently in the breeze, their glow dimming as the hours slipped by.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper crane, holding it between his fingers. The delicate folds seemed to shimmer under the lantern light, as if it carried some small piece of magic within its wings—a quiet reminder that peace didn’t have to be something grand. Sometimes, it was just a tiny, folded bird resting in your hand.

Ren smiled, tucking the crane back into his pocket. He wasn’t sure where the night would take him next, but for the first time, that didn’t scare him. The festival had given him exactly what he didn’t know he needed—a quiet moment in between everything else, a space to breathe.