When the Lantern Came Back On

When the Lanterns Came Back On

The train station in Hangzhou smelled like metal, steamed buns, and winter coats that had not seen the sun in weeks. Li Wen stood near Platform Six, her phone cold in her hand, watching families spill out of the arrivals gate. Red suitcases. Red scarves. Red envelopes already peeking from pockets. It was two days before Chinese New Year, and everyone seemed to be going somewhere they belonged.

She told herself she was only here to pick up her cousin. That was true, mostly. But every time the gate opened, her heart leaned forward a little, as if it remembered something she was trying to forget.

She had not seen Zhao Ming in five years.

They grew up three streets apart, in a riverside town where everyone knew which family cooked the best braised pork and which alley flooded first when the rain came. As teenagers, they shared homework answers, late-night bike rides, and a quiet understanding that felt too big to name. When they were twenty-two, he left for Shenzhen with a single backpack and a promise to come back after the Spring Festival.

Life, as it often does, did not wait.

Now she was thirty, back in her hometown after a failed startup and a breakup that ended with silence instead of anger. Her parents said it was good timing. Chinese New Year was for starting over.

The crowd thinned. Li Wen exhaled, a little embarrassed at herself.

Then she saw him.

Zhao Ming stood just beyond the gate, taller than she remembered, hair shorter, coat too thin for the cold. He scanned the platform with the same habit he always had, eyes searching faces like he expected to find something important. When their eyes met, he froze.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then he smiled. Not polite. Not careful. The same smile that used to appear when he won at mahjong or stole the last dumpling.

“Li Wen,” he said, like her name had been waiting on his tongue.

She laughed, surprised by how easy it felt. “You’re late,” she said, because it was safer than saying anything else.

They walked out of the station together, their steps slightly out of sync. He carried his own bag. She noticed that first. He always had. Outside, red banners hung from lampposts, already fluttering with good fortune characters. Someone nearby was selling candied hawthorn on sticks, sugar cracked and shining.

“So,” he said. “You’re back.”

“So are you,” she replied.

That night, their town buzzed with preparation. Fish cleaned in metal basins. Firecrackers tested too early. Li Wen’s mother sent her to deliver rice cakes to neighbors, a job she had done every year since childhood. When she reached Zhao Ming’s old house, she hesitated.

The door opened before she knocked.

His grandmother stood there, smaller than Li Wen remembered, but her eyes sharp. “Ah,” she said. “The lantern girl.”

Li Wen flushed. When she was sixteen, she had helped Zhao Ming hang red lanterns too high for him to reach. One had fallen and shattered, and his grandmother had laughed until she cried.

“Come in,” the old woman said. “He’s been asking if you’d come.”

Zhao Ming appeared from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour. “She’s here,” he called, unnecessary and full of joy.

They made dumplings together, their fingers moving in a rhythm that came back without thinking. Pork and chives. Folding. Pinching. He stood closer than he needed to. Their elbows brushed. Each time, Li Wen felt a quiet jolt.

After dinner, they stepped outside. The street glowed with red and gold. Children chased each other with sparklers. Someone’s radio played an old Spring Festival song, tinny and nostalgic.

“Do you remember,” Zhao Ming said, “the year it snowed on New Year’s Eve?”

She nodded. “We stayed up all night.”

“You fell asleep first.”

“You drew on my face.”

He laughed. “You drew back. Much worse.”

They walked toward the river, where lanterns floated on the water like drifting wishes. Zhao Ming leaned on the railing, his breath fogging the air.

“I should have come back sooner,” he said quietly.

Li Wen watched a lantern tilt and right itself. “I should have called,” she said.

Silence settled, not heavy, but careful.

“I was afraid,” he said. “That if I came back, nothing would be the same.”

“And now?” she asked.

He looked at her. “Some things are.”

Chinese New Year arrived with noise and light. Firecrackers cracked open the morning. Li Wen woke to the smell of incense and her father humming off-key. The family gathered for reunion dinner, laughter rising with the steam from hot dishes. Her aunt whispered, her cousin teased, and her mother watched her with knowing eyes.

After dinner, Li Wen slipped outside. Zhao Ming waited near the gate, hands in his pockets.

“Walk with me?” he asked.

They followed the river path, lanterns overhead swaying gently. Somewhere, a temple bell rang.

“I leave after the holiday,” he said. “Back to Shenzhen.”

Her chest tightened. “Of course.”

“But,” he continued, “I don’t want to leave like before.”

She stopped walking. He turned to face her.

“I don’t know what you need,” he said. “Or where you’re going. But I know I want to try. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s messy.”

Li Wen thought of the years that had passed, the versions of herself she had been. She thought of trains leaving, of lanterns returning every year no matter what.

She reached for his hand. It was warm. Familiar.

“Stay for the Lantern Festival,” she said. “At least until then.”

His smile was soft, steady. “Okay.”

On the fifteenth night, the town gathered again by the river. Lanterns lit the dark like small suns. Children held rabbit-shaped lights. Couples stood close, sharing warmth.

Zhao Ming and Li Wen released a lantern together. It lifted, wobbled, then rose, joining the others.

“What did you wish for?” he asked.

She squeezed his hand. “Something old,” she said. “Something new.”

The lanterns drifted upward, carrying their light into the night. And for the first time in years, Li Wen felt certain that some things, like love and New Year lanterns, were always meant to come back.