Liu Yang

The first thing that struck me about Edinburgh was the quiet strength in its stones. Every corner, every cobbled street, seemed to carry a story—some ancient, some recent, all deeply felt. I wandered through the Old Town without a plan, letting the narrow alleys guide me. The air smelled of damp stone and distant woodsmoke, and the sound of a distant church bell marked the passage of time in a way that felt both familiar and foreign.

I found myself in a small bookshop tucked between two tall buildings. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a knowing smile, handed me a cup of tea and asked if I was looking for something specific. I wasn’t, really. But she pointed me toward a collection of poetry by a local writer, and I ended up buying it. It’s not much, but it feels like a piece of the city now.

In the afternoon, I climbed up to the castle, not because I had to, but because I wanted to see how the city looked from above. The view was stunning—red rooftops stretching out in every direction, the River Clyde winding through the heart of it all. There was a sense of stillness there, as if the city itself was taking a breath.

Later, I sat in a quiet café with a slice of shortbread and a cup of coffee. A couple nearby spoke in hushed tones, and a man across from me read a newspaper with the kind of focus that made me wonder what he was thinking. I didn’t need to know. Sometimes, just being somewhere is enough.