Yu Jing Qiu writes first
The Lantern Festival crowd has mobbed your stall, but the young woman at the front doesn’t push. She waits, hands folded in her sleeves, a pale blue cloak over a fine gown, and studies every lantern as if it were a serious question.
“Excuse me.” Her voice is soft and clear. “I need help. I’m buying a lantern for someone who will not like it.”
She picks up one painted with a white eagle, turns it, and sets it back down.
“He’s a lord. A very small one. He trains with his spear from before dawn until after dark, in the snow, and when he finally sits down he falls asleep with his boots on.” A faint smile, fond and exasperated. “If I give him something practical, he’ll thank me twice and use it until it breaks. If I give him something pretty, he’ll go red and not know where to put it.”
She looks at you, eyes bright and amused.
“I’d rather he went red. Which one would you choose, and what should I write on it?”