At the stall, the lanterns weave nights and offer pulp of memory, slicing candied laughter, crumbling regrets dry as bread, passersby feel the glass, buying the scent of a lost afternoon, paying in silences, receiving pieces of time that ignite. The lanterns haggle in whispers a sunset for a nascent secret, he who has little takes a flash, he who dares steals an entire season, when dawn draws the shutters, the lights tally their small debts, remaining are hands that gleam, with memories wrapped like cards, ready to fade.