The faint outline of the city skyline still peaks above the shallow roofline. But the glow on the darkness above comes not from the lights of late days.

Rough stone brick streets, already narrow any other time of year, are made tighter still by makeshift wooden stands, and tarps propped up between the night and supper. Yet with the departure of any walls to lean on, the people flock away from their busy lives, if only to spend just this one night under the light of the stars.

An orange hymn flickers among cobble crevices, a small crowd gathers around, watching the open flame and sizzle of oil. The man behind the coal-black wok has his sleeves rolled up high, and the sweat on his forehead shines, but he burns with an even brighter passion. It makes me stop for just a moment, watching from a distance.

As I carry on down the path, children squeeze through the empty space in the masses of coats and winter robes, under watchful eyes. Mother’s and father’s, caretakers and old friends, occupy the lines of closely packed tables that jam up against the walls. Chatting amongst themselves with a drink not too far from hand, whatever worries that plague the mind seem to wash away into the sea of euphoria. And given due time, perhaps the memories that pretend to be forgotten will eventually disappear too; nothing more than starlight on the edge of the full moon.

A group of oncoming people nears, and I take a step to the side. One of them shoots me a nod with a smile as they pass by. But when it hits me to acknowledge this stranger’s gratitude, my eyes have already flickered away to the ground. It’s anticipation, rather than curtesy that comes naturally. I quickly glance back up, scanning the wandering crowds for the stranger long gone, but instead I happen upon a small child, through the gaps between those passing by. Her chin is to the sky, with a gaze that doesn’t move.

Amidst the lights on the night above, one glimmers a different colour than the rest, as it slowly vanishes into the dark. A single paper lantern dispatched before the others. Alone not by choice, but submitting, nonetheless. How insignificant we were supposed to be.

“Hey, you there, young man.”

A voice hollers over the bustling rapture. I turn towards the sound. Behind a noodle stand not two arms lengths away, the cook leans over the counter, looking straight in my direction. I point to myself with my best look of uncertainty.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, don’t just stand there, have a seat.” He says, eagerly.

The two other patrons already sitting there glance over their shoulders, with welcoming smiles.

“I really shouldn’t, I was just getting somewhere.” I reply.

But the cook insists.

“There’s no need to be shy, have you forgotten what day it is?”

I swivel my head to either side, searching the crowd one more time, before giving in to the innocence in his eyes. A look long lost and grounded deep inside.

As I take my seat, the other pair turns back to their own conversation.

“Just looking for something light,” I tell the cook, who’s already pulling a bowl and utensils from under the counter. “I’m going to be meeting up with someone later tonight.”

He nods, turning to the worn frying pan behind him, picking up all he needs in fluent motion. I find myself watching the man with a stagnant stare. My sight blurs into the sash tied around his waist, and the lifts of his elbows; taking my mind away from the edge of dreaded expectancy.

The cook talks to me over his shoulder, having noticed my silence.

“What’s you’re name, kid?” He asks.

“Klaus.” I tell him. His response lingers, anticipating more. But there isn’t anything else. Not anymore.

“Just Klaus?”

I nod but, of course, he doesn’t see it behind his back. My silence that comes along with it carries the same message though. He’s careful not to dig too deep, or ask the wrong questions.

“You from around here?”

“Not too far.”

He waits to see if there’s anything more to my answer, but then carries on.

“First time in the city for new years?”

I lower my chin to hide my smirk.

“Was it that obvious?”

The man makes a final toss before setting the pan to the side.

“I’ve been doing this for a something coming close to a decade now, and I’ve yet to see anyone as lost as you.”

“There’s just a lot on my mind.” I say, speaking ahead of thought.

The cook pivots to my direction, a deliberate pause in whatever he was doing. There’s a comforting look on his face.

“I know how that feels.” He says, carefully reading my faint reactions. “If it’s not too much to ask, I’d be happy to lend an ear.”

His words take me back, but to more hopeful memories. Something that in someway doesn’t seem right, but it’s reassuring, nonetheless.

“There’s a friend of mine, I’m, not sure what I should tell her, right now.”

There’s another pause, the man taking the time to make sure he says the right things. As he ponders, the two others beside me rise from their seats and thank the cook, then disappear into the ecstatic air.

“She might not know what to say to say to you either.”

He awaits my response, but it’s like he’s standing in front of a rock. Leaving me in stillness, he spins back around and quickly finishes the dish, placing it on the counter.

“Let me tell you something that my teacher taught me.”

The man gives the bowl a slight turn towards me.

“Just eat.” He says, with a warm smile.

I take a breath and sit up a bit straighter.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “You’re a good man.”

His reply is a modest one.

“Just doing what I can.”

I pull the bowl closer to myself, but it’s at that same moment that I feel a sudden sting on the back of my neck. The beam of prying eyes. The cook looks up to greet a customer, and even before the newcomer speaks, I feel the familiar presence. He slides into the seat beside me, a man of sizeable stature, wearing a thin jacket for the cool night. My chest beats quicker, like a string wrapped tightly around, pulling with discomfort. And as the cook turns back to the stove, whatever it was that I was thinking a moment ago is replaced only by a red haze.

“Of course they picked you.” I mutter. But my words are drowned even to my own ears.

The man places his forearms on the table. Not once does he look in my direction, but greeting me nonetheless.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

The taste of fresh blood seeps onto my tongue, lip pinched between my teeth. He sits awaiting, giving himself no right to speak. None of the lines I’d prepared make their way out of the swamp consuming my mind. But nothing reckless comes out either. Suppressed is the growing unrest that boils within.

“Well,” I tell the man. “I’ve been here and there.”

He gives a slight bow of his head. I glance at his lowered eyes, then return to myself, and the bowl in front of me. As I make my way through local flavour, the ambient celebratory noises begin to set in. The shuffling stone. The near and distant chatter. The scattering oil.

I lay down an empty bowl. The cook collects it quickly and quietly, before turning to the since filled seats to my other side. Sitting between blissful future and burdened past, I gather myself once more.

“You going to order anything?” I ask the man.

“Just figuring out what I’m in the mood for.”

He raises his head and looks to the cook, who finishes his banter with the others, before taking back to the stove. Once again, I watch his every motion. But perhaps this time, it’s only because my eyes are pointed in his direction.

A soft steam rises from the dish as it’s placed in front of the man beside me. He still waits though. The warmth begins to cool.

I shift my foot back a step, preparing to leave.

“I should get probably get going. I’ve already taken up this seat for too long.”

As I begin to stand, a jacket rustles, and the man speaks.

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

My movements pause for just a moment.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

I’m on my feet, facing the thinning crowd. The people head in only one direction now, a hopeful expression shared by them all. An abrupt request comes from behind.

“We need you’re help.”

There’s something lifted from my shoulders with those words. A weight of expectancy departed but leaving in it’s place a heavier burden.

“Look for me again sometime. I won’t make myself too hard to find.”

I take a step forward, but before blending myself into the masses, I stop for one final parting.

“It was good seeing you again,” I tell the man.

“Alfred”

----------------------------------

Written on the black of night, the first of the floating flames rises above the lightless hill. I remain motionless, stopped halfway between steps on stone stairs. The flickering of lanterns peaks through the willows, swaying in the soft breeze that carries the lights along.

I carry on up the steps, the rough granite molding the thin soles of my shoes. Approaching closer to the top, the moonlit stones peak their heads above the hill, followed by the brick aisles that intersect. The wind chills my ears, as it washes over the patches of grass.

I make my way through the familiar path. The rows of marked hedges stand out to me tonight, more then I remember them ever having before. Perhaps it’s the way each crack and scar casts its own little shadow upon itself, how the specks of shining dust within the rock seems to sparkle in the night. Or perhaps it’s because the past keeps creeping back on me, a reminder of what was going through the mind of that scared little kid, as the whole world came to a halt.

Nearing the end of my route, I find myself staring down at an empty shadow. Only noticing I’m all alone when the breeze whistles by once more.

There’s a presence against the wind, and I turn to face the way I came. A silhouette stands in the path, back to the moon, a hazy outline surrounding the figure.

“You came to see me?” The girl asks.

She steps forward and out of the shadows.

“Is that so surprising?” I ask, in return.

It’s replied only with a shy smile towards the ground. The girl passes in front of me, holding her hands behind her back.

“I went to look for you.” She says, looking up at the drifting lights.

As she brings her gaze back down, her chin is lowered towards the ground, and eyes tilted to my feet.

“I thought you might have left already.” She finishes.

I shake my head at the stone, and tell her earnestly.

“Not yet. There’s still something I’ve got to do here.”

The girl looks away embarrassed, having realized what was implied. As she spins her back towards me, I notice what she holds in her hands. A lantern hanging from her wrist, a matchbox, tucked under her palm, and between her fingers, a pair of envelopes.

“I’m sorry we didn’t celebrate the last new year.” She says.

“That’s alright, the only thing I used to ever do was put up a tree in the room.”

She looks back over her shoulder, with a vain intrigue that invites me in. I step forward, returning to her side.

“You never told me about that.”

“About what?”

“About new years, where you’re from.”

I rest my head atop the illuminated stone, cushioned in my bare arms.

“Wasn’t anything exciting.” I tell her. “Just like any other day really. It was the people that made things special.”

I hear the girl lower herself to the ground. Her things make a soft noise as they’re spread out on top the grave.

I expect her to say something, but she doesn’t. When I take my sight away from the fleeting flickers, I’m met with a pair of eyes waiting for me to notice them. I join her on the cold stone. She props up the paper lantern, then fumbles with the match box. On the third strike, a lonely flame glimmers an orange light, tracing a path in the darkness, as it sets the candle alight. There’s a gentle breath that puts the matchstick out. I feel the air on the back of my hand.

“Did you know,” The girl says. “We call today the moonlight festival, because we send our wishes to the moon.”

Under the dim light, she takes both letters out of their envelopes, and tears a small hole at the top of each. Finding the strand of twine attached to the bottom of the lantern, she threads it through, and ties it in a knot. Then she picks up the candle, and places it inside.

The lantern floats in the girl’s hands. She raises it high above her head. And with the parting of her fingers, it begins to rise, above the blackness of the ground and sky, towards the light and its inevitable demise. I follow its trail across the stars, carried along by the wind, as it shrinks to just a dot.

“What about your wish?” I ask, out of the blue.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re sending off your mother and father’s wishes. But, what about yours?”

A tear begins to well up in the back of her eye, but she doesn’t take her sight away from the sky.

“Mine, is the same as theirs, I guess.”

I look back up to the spark, just in time to see it flicker for the final time. I can no longer see it, but I imagine its silhouette, as its descent commences. Along with it, the long-foreseen eventuality that’s been welling up inside begins to tug away at me, becoming one with the peaceful loneliness.

“Will you be going now?” Claire asks.

All I can do is nod, without a word.

She places her palms on her knees, bringing her face down to her chest. The moonlit lines on the stones behind become hazier, and a drop of light falls from Claire’s chin.

I shut my eyes. And in the emptiness, a pair of arms is flung over my shoulders.

“I don’t know if I can go on alone.”

There's a damp spot on the back of my shirt.

“I don’t know if I can be who they want me to be.”

Her voice is desperate, yearning for comfort that cannot be given. I embrace her with all that I can offer. My eyes hold shut, but they just want to burst.

It’s here once again that I find myself, striding towards the past that I tried so hard to forget. With memories forged in glass now a clear reminder. A reminder of the consequences if I am to fail. She forces herself back into my memory from beyond, looking down from the new world; her dream that we’ll chase until the very end.

“Come visit me sometime.”

I nod, but my chin does not lift from her shoulder.

“I will.”