At the center of the roof was a table covered in cloth. On it lay an assortment of objects: a broken watch with numbers that stopped just before midnight, a faded comic book, a letter in handwriting that tilted like a sigh. One by one, strangers stepped forward and placed something on the cloth, then spoke a sentence into the open air as if offering a confession to the sky. The festival’s rules were simple: name your regret; leave its symbol behind; do not ask for it back.
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