Night in Harenik softens into ritual. Lanterns are lit along the riverbanks, their flames reflected in the water in a shifting column of gold. Lovers stroll arm-in-arm; the watchman makes his slow rounds, calling the hours and listening to the sleeping town. Families read by lamplight, fingers tracing the spines of books that smell of dust and sun. In the center square, some evenings bring music: a chorus of voices joins the fiddler from midday, and the melody loops, familiar and warm.