The evening air smelled of roasted chestnuts and sugar. Lanterns bobbed above the crowded street like tiny suns caught in a slow parade. Eleven-year-old Ji-Ho stood on his toes at a festival stall, watching a man pour caramelized syrup into a round mold.
"Hold still, kid," the vendor said, slipping a metal needle into Ji-Ho's hand. "Star or heart?"
"Star," Ji-Ho answered, puffing his chest. "I'm good at this."
He wasn't. His fingers shook just looking at the thin golden line that separated victory from disaster. The prize was a free soda. The punishment—public shame and sticky fingers for days.
He leaned over the tin, tongue between his teeth. The sugar surface gleamed, delicate as glass. He pressed the needle down. Crack.
"Ah!" Ji-Ho flinched. The star's edge broke. The vendor sighed in pity.
Before the disappointment could sink in, a tan blur darted under the table. A shaggy dog, tongue out, eyes wild with festival chaos. It slammed into Ji-Ho's legs, almost knocking him into the syrup pan.
"Yah! Wait—!" he yelled, hopping back. The crowd laughed. The dog snatched his broken dalgona and bolted.
"Hey! That's mine!" Ji-Ho lunged after it, forgetting that hot syrup and sandals weren't friends. He skidded straight into another kid—small, bright-eyed, holding a stick of fish cake like a sword.
"Watch where you're—oh!"
Both fell into a pile of paper lanterns. The fish cake landed on Ji-Ho's nose.
The girl blinked at him. "You okay?"
"I think the dog stole my dalgona."
She glanced toward the escaping thief, then at his empty hands. "So you're chasing it for candy?"
"It's not candy. It was a perfect star."
"It cracked."
"It was almost perfect."
The girl grinned, quick and mischievous. "Stay here."
Before Ji-Ho could reply, she sprinted after the dog, weaving through people with impossible agility. The crowd parted around her shouts—"Stop! Bad puppy!"—until both vanished behind a tteokbokki cart.
Moments later, she re-emerged, triumphant, holding up a sticky, slightly tooth-marked dalgona. "Got it!"
Ji-Ho's mouth fell open. "You actually—"
"—stole it back," she finished proudly. "From a dog. So technically, I'm the second thief."
He accepted the mangled candy reverently. "You saved it."
"No," she said, brushing sugar off her sleeve, "I saved you. That dog looked like it wanted dessert with legs."
The vendor shouted something about "crazy kids," but Ji-Ho didn't hear. He was too busy staring at the girl who'd charged into a crowd for his half-melted sugar.
"What's your name?"
"Thanu," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You?"
"Ji-Ho."
They shook hands solemnly, then immediately flinched—their fingers stuck together with caramel.
Thanu laughed first, bright and sharp as fireworks. "See? Destiny glue."
They struggled to unstick their hands while laughing so hard that nearby vendors turned to stare. Ji-Ho, red-eared and proud, finally freed himself with a dramatic pop! that sent a chunk of sugar flying into the air.
"Whoa!" Thanu dodged. "You're dangerous, Candy Boy."
"Candy—hey! I'm not—"
"You are now." She grinned, dusting sugar from her sleeve. "Ji-Ho the Candy Boy, savior of… broken stars."
He groaned, but her laughter was infectious. The crowd's noise swelled again around them—music from a pansori stage, the hiss of grilled meat, the chatter of families under hanging lanterns.
"Come on," she said suddenly. "You can buy me a drink to thank me."
Ji-Ho blinked. "But the prize was supposed to be mine."
"Exactly." She pointed to a nearby stand selling banana milk. "One banana milk, payment for heroic services."
He followed, clutching the wounded dalgona like a trophy. The vendor eyed their sticky fingers before passing two cold bottles. They sat on the curb, the world glowing with festival light.
For a while, neither spoke. Ji-Ho bit into the dalgona's unbroken half, and Thanu sipped her drink with a straw that squeaked.
"It still tastes good," he mumbled.
"It should," she said. "You chased it halfway across Seoul."
He smiled. "You're weird."
"Thank you. Normal's boring."
A paper lantern floated past, drifting upward on a small flame. More followed, hundreds rising into the violet night until the sky looked like an ocean turned upside-down. Thanu's eyes widened.
"My mom says each one carries a wish."
Ji-Ho nodded, suddenly serious. "What did you wish for?"
She thought for a long moment, then whispered, "To meet someone I'll never forget."
He blushed. "That's… a big wish."
"What about you?"
He hesitated, then said, "To be brave enough to protect something that matters."
Their eyes met, caught between the glow of a hundred tiny suns.
Then a dog barked somewhere in the distance, and both jumped. The tension shattered; Thanu burst out laughing again.
"See? Destiny glue and dog curses."
Ji-Ho laughed too, throwing the empty banana milk carton at her feet. "You're going to remember this, right?"
She tilted her head. "How could I not? Candy Boy owes me another drink."
They made an exaggerated pinky promise, sealed it with solemn nods, and ran off toward the fireworks field before curfew, leaving behind a sticky trail of sugar and laughter.
The fireworks began without warning—a single silver bloom that burst over the rooftops, scattering shards of light across the night sky. The crowd gasped as more followed: red, blue, gold, each one reflected in Thanu's wide eyes.
Ji-Ho and Thanu stood at the edge of the field, the festival's noise fading behind them. The smell of smoke and caramel lingered in the air. For a heartbeat, it felt like the world had slowed to listen.
Thanu leaned back on her heels, clutching her half-empty banana-milk bottle. "If every spark was a memory," she said, "how many would you keep?"
Ji-Ho looked at the sky, pretending to count. "All of them.""Even the ones that hurt?""Especially those," he said. "That means they mattered."
A hush passed between them, fragile but full. The wind carried the faint sound of a shaman's drum from the main street; it mingled with the soft pop of distant fireworks.
Thanu squinted at him. "You talk like an old man.""And you steal like a bandit.""Guess that makes us even."
She tore a small piece from what remained of the dalgona and pressed it into his palm. "Here. So you don't forget me."
He wanted to joke again, to make her laugh, but something about the way the sugar stuck to his skin made the words stay in his throat. The warmth of her hand, the sting of sweetness—it etched itself into him deeper than any scar.
A final explosion lit the night in gold. For a moment the whole world glimmered—the lanterns, the smoke, the tiny flecks of sugar between them.
Then the light faded, leaving only the echo of laughter and the faint smell of burnt caramel.
Ji-Ho turned to say something, but Thanu was already running toward her mother's voice, waving with sticky fingers.
"See you next year, Candy Boy!" she called.
He raised his hand in reply. "Promise!"
The crowd swallowed her up. Ji-Ho looked down at the star-shaped dalgona, cracked but still holding its shape, and smiled.
Somewhere above, a paper lantern drifted higher than all the rest, carrying two small wishes that would one day collide again.