Liu Yang

I've been wandering through the cobbled streets of York, and it's been a quiet kind of magic. The city has this way of wrapping itself around you, like an old friend who knows exactly what you need. There's a calmness to it, even in the busiest parts. You can feel the history beneath your feet, in every stone and every archway.

I spent the morning at the Minster, sitting on a bench near the entrance, just watching people come and go. The light through the stained glass is something else—soft, colorful, almost dreamlike. I didn't take many photos, just let it all sink in. Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

In the afternoon, I found a little bookshop tucked between two shops, its windows full of stories waiting to be discovered. The owner was friendly, not too pushy, just happy to chat about the books she loved. We talked about favorite authors, and she recommended a few that I hadn't heard of before. It felt like a small but meaningful connection.

Evening came with a chill in the air, and I wandered toward the river. The water was still, reflecting the lights from the bridges above. I sat on a bench for a while, just listening to the sounds of the city—distant footsteps, the occasional laugh, the soft hum of a streetlamp. It wasn’t anything grand, but it felt right.

York doesn’t shout its beauty. It whispers it, and you have to be still enough to hear it. And maybe that’s why I like it so much.