Carousel

The Ferris wheel’s colorful lights blurred into a patchwork of watercolor in the rain, my fingers growing slightly stiff around the transparent umbrella handle. When my phone vibrated for the third time in my bag, the familiar mint-green hoodie finally broke through the curtain of rain. The brown paper bag in his arms was wrapped in plastic, and water droplets falling from his hair shimmered faintly under the streetlights.

He bent over, panting, raindrops still clinging to his eyelashes. “But the strawberry tarts couldn’t be late.” The sweet aroma from the bag mingled with the scent of cedar and rain on his clothes. I stared at the damp watermarks on his sleeves, suddenly recalling the dessert shop I’d casually mentioned during our video call last week.

The carousel jingled in the misty rain as he stuffed a hot cocoa into my cold, reddened hands while holding two boxes of egg tarts himself. “When I was a kid, I always thought making seventeen full rotations would grant a wish.” As the wooden horses rose and fell, his reflection swayed in the chocolate-colored liquid, a dab of cream on his nose going completely unnoticed. When the carousel melody played for the seventh time, I realized he’d been keeping his body turned sideways the entire time, using his back to shield me from the slanting rain.