Yeah, those little orange suns always draw a crowd. I once met a guy named Marlon behind a stall that smelled like sunshine and burnt sugar. He’d been making those sweets for twenty years, started out in his mother’s kitchen when he was a kid, and now he’s the only person who knows how to keep them chewy without making them fall apart. He’d trade a handful of sweets for a good story, like the time he sold them to a kid on a bus and the kid turned out to be the mayor’s kid. Every time I catch his eye, he flashes a grin and a quick wink, like he’s saying, “You see the taste, but you’ll never see the whole recipe.” I keep snapping the moments where he hands a candy to a stranger—just a quick pause, a look of contentment, and the city breathing in that sweet moment. It’s the little human threads that make the streets feel alive.