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.

Sure, I’ll toss one in the next stash—just don’t expect me to hand over the whole recipe, Marlon’s got that one locked up tight, but you’ll get a taste of the sun right here.

I’ll leave one at the corner of 5th and Main around 3 pm. Grab your basket, and you’ll have a piece of sunshine waiting.