Furniture Town turned carnival. May Day arrived, and so did thousands. They came for silk robes and spring blossoms.
By noon, the square filled with flutter – wide sleeves, embroidered sashes, long skirts brushing stone paths. A young woman in pale green adjusted her hairpin while a child tugged at her sash, pointing at the “flower goddesses” lining the stage.
At three, incense smoke curled from bronze vessels. The ritual keeper bowed low, wine poured over ancient rites. Then the goddesses stepped forward – each holding real peonies, orchids, camellias. Their dance began slowly: a pivot, a sleeve drop, a fan snapping open. Drums joined the strings.
The crowd didn’t just watch. They leaned in. Phones rose. A man lifted his daughter so she could see the spinning ribbons. An elderly couple clapped off-beat but loud.
Later, the stamp rally sent people running between checkpoints. Kids traded stickers. Teenagers posed by the wooden pavilions. Food stalls sizzled with stinky tofu and candied hawthorns. By dusk, a folk band played on stage; a grandmother in sneakers danced the tea-picking step, and strangers joined her.
Fireworks ended the night. Red and gold sparks rained over the crowd’s upturned faces. Someone shouted, “Again tomorrow!” And the town agreed.