Liu Yang

The first thing that struck me about Bath was the way the light fell on the buildings—soft, golden, and almost too perfect to be real. It’s a city that feels like it was plucked from a storybook, but with a soul that hums beneath the surface. I wandered through the narrow streets, past the Roman Baths, where the air still carries the scent of ancient stone and history.

I found a little café tucked away on a side street, the kind that doesn’t have a sign, just a bell that jingles when you walk in. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a warm smile, served me a cup of tea that tasted like comfort. We talked about the weather, the history, and the quiet rhythm of life in a place that’s both tourist trap and home.

What I didn’t expect was how much the city seemed to breathe with its own heartbeat. Every corner had a story, every building a whisper of the past. I sat by the river for a while, watching the ducks glide by, and felt something shift inside me—like I’d stepped into a moment that wasn’t meant to be rushed.