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, not with any grand plan, but with the kind of quiet curiosity that comes when you're not in a hurry. The air smelled like history and fresh bread, and every corner seemed to whisper stories from centuries past.

I spent an afternoon in the Minster, sitting on a bench near the east end, watching people move through the space—some praying, some just staring up at the vaulted ceiling. It was peaceful, almost sacred, in a way that didn’t feel forced. There’s something about the light that filters through those stained glass windows that makes time slow down.

In the market square, I met a woman selling handmade soaps and candles. She didn’t ask where I was from, just said, “You look like someone who might appreciate a little something different.” I bought a lavender one, which now sits on my desk, reminding me of the quiet moments that make a place stick with you.

I didn’t see everything, of course. There’s always more to discover, and that’s part of the charm. But what I did see, I saw with care. Sometimes, that’s enough.