On their last evening, the town hosts a small festival of lanterns for no reason anyone can remember—tradition or impulse, it’s impossible to say. Potato Godzilla stands amid the stalls, now decorated with strings of LED lights and a crown of incense smoke. Lovers dance in a circle that looks like a map of constellations. Momochan and Mitakun hold two mismatched lanterns, one hand each, and step into the crowd. They don’t speak the big promises; they don’t need to. Theirs are promises built of ordinary moments: a hat folded from a ticket, a potato pressed against an ear, a laugh shared over a ridiculous public art installation.