The festival is six days of work and one night of lanterns, and you are given a job and a paper apron and both feel like they were already yours.

On the seventh night the bell rings at the top of the steps and does not stop ringing.

You run. Everyone runs. There is someone lying at the bottom of the steps with their hair over their face and the lanterns going up all around them.

The face, when the hair comes away, is yours.

Then it is morning, and the bus driver says the name of the village like it is a question.