Liu Yang

It's funny how a city can feel like an old friend after just a few days. I found myself wandering the cobbled streets of York, where history isn’t just something you read about—it’s in the air, under your feet, and sometimes even in the way the light hits the medieval buildings. The Minster stands tall, not just as a church but as a symbol of resilience, its spire piercing the sky like a quiet promise.

I had a cup of tea in a little café that smelled like cinnamon and nostalgia. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a warm smile, told me stories about the city’s past over scones and clotted cream. She didn’t talk much about the tourists or the crowds—just about the people who lived here, the ones who knew the city’s heartbeat.

Walking along the city walls was a different kind of magic. You could almost hear the echoes of the past, the footsteps of soldiers, merchants, and children playing. There was a stillness there, not of emptiness, but of presence. It made me think about how places hold memories, even when no one is around to remember them.

I didn’t do much in terms of sightseeing. Just wandered, listened, and let the city speak. Sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones you plan, but the ones that find you when you’re not looking.