A hundred flames flickered to life. The lanterns rose, hesitant at first, then with purpose. They drifted over the lake like migrating stars. Marisol let hers go. She watched it join the others—higher, smaller, until she couldn’t tell which one was hers anymore. And that, she realized, was the point.

The old boathouse by Silver Lake had been abandoned for years, but on the last Saturday of every June, it became the heart of the world. For one night, the plywood over the windows came down, strings of mismatched fairy lights were coaxed into life, and a battered speaker played songs that were too queer for any radio station. This was the Lantern Festival—not the official Pride, not the parade with corporate floats, but the real one, the one you only learned about from a friend of a friend.

Alex smiled. “Nah. You just have the Look. The ‘I’m about to run back to my car’ Look. I had it for three festivals before I actually stayed.” They handed Marisol a paper lantern, still flat. “Here. Assembly required. It’s a metaphor.”

When her lantern was finished, she held it in her palms. It was imperfect—lopsided, the glue still wet. But it was hers. She thought about the word community . She had always seen it as something you found, like a lost key. But standing there, surrounded by a hundred other people lighting their own fragile paper vessels, she understood something different.

Alex touched her elbow. “Welcome to the festival,” they said.

Marisol swallowed. “Is it that obvious?”