We drift through the festival as a group, stopping to sample fried clams and browse handmade crafts and watch a group of children compete in a lobster-themed obstacle course that involves crawling through tunnels and pinching clothespins with oversized foam claws. Atticus buys a jar of local honey from a bearded man who talks about his bees with the reverence usually reserved for religious figures. Dom disappears briefly and returns with a funnel cake that he refuses to share with anyone.
At some point, we stumble across a booth selling wish lanterns.
The display is simple—a table covered in biodegradable paper lanterns in soft colors, each one attached to a small wooden frame designed to float on water. A hand-painted sign explains the tradition:
HARMONY HARBOR WISH LANTERNS
Write your wish on the paper. Place it in the lantern. Float it out to sea.
If it drifts beyond sight before landing in the water, your wish will come true.
Lanterns are biodegradable and safe for marine life!
“This is so touristy,” Mason murmurs, but there’s no real criticism in his voice. If anything, he sounds nostalgic.
“It’s a tradition,” Judah corrects gently. “Been doing this since I was a kid. My dad used to bring us every year.”
The vendor, a cheerful woman with silver-streaked hair and paint-stained fingers, beams at us. “Five lanterns, then? Markers are right here. Take your time with the wishes.”
Before I can decide whether this is charming or ridiculous, Atticus has already handed over cash for the whole group. He accepts five lanterns and a handful of markers, distributing them without fanfare.
We spread out slightly along the waterfront, each of us finding our own spot to write. The late afternoon sun slants golden across the harbor, and the sound of the festival fades to pleasant background noise.
I stare at my blank lantern. The paper is a soft cream color, slightly textured beneath my fingers. The marker hovers above it, waiting.
What do I wish for?
A month ago, the answer would have been obvious. Career success. Critical acclaim. The kind of respect that’s always seemed just out of reach, dangling in front of me like a carrot I can never quite bite.
Now?
I glance at the others without quite meaning to.
Mason writes something, each swoop of the pen quick and efficient, but shields the words from view with his hand. Judah takes his time, biting his bottom lip as he considers the paper. Dom scrawls something, scowls at it, crosses it out with aggressive strokes. Atticus stares at his blank lantern for a long moment. Then, with a decisive movement, he writes just a single word.
Sneaking closer to look at their papers would obviously be a complete invasion of privacy, but I’m still really tempted to do it.
What do I wish for?
My marker touches paper. The words flow out before I can second-guess them:
I want to be loved more than I am desired.
I fold the paper so no one can read it and tuck it into the lantern frame.
We gather at the launch area—a section of the harbor where the water laps gently against weathered wooden pilings. The vendor has set up a small floating dock specifically for this purpose, and a few other festival-goers are already releasing their own lanterns, watching them float away above the gentle waves.
“On three?” Atticus suggests.
We line up along the dock’s edge, lanterns cupped carefully in our hands. The paper glows soft and luminous in the fading light.
“One,” Mason counts.
“Two,” Judah adds.
“Three,” we say together, and five lanterns hit the water.
The lanterns hover uncertainly for a moment, circling in the vortex of wind created by the harbor. Then, as if by agreement, they begin to drift outward.
