Liu Yang

The first thing that struck me about this city was the quiet rhythm of its streets. Not the kind that's empty, but the kind that hums with a steady, unbothered energy. There’s a certain way the light falls here—soft, almost forgiving—like the city is watching you, but not judging. I found myself wandering more than planning, which is usually how I end up discovering the best bits.

I stopped by a small bookshop tucked between two old pubs. The owner didn’t say much, just nodded when I asked if I could look around. The shelves were stacked high, some books leaning like they were tired of standing. I picked one up, and it felt like opening a door to another time. The smell of paper and ink wrapped around me, and for a moment, I forgot where I was.

Later, I sat on a bench by the river, watching the water move slowly under the bridge. A few people passed by, some with coffee, some with dogs, and a couple of kids chasing each other with ice cream. It wasn’t anything special, but there was something comforting about it. Like the city had no rush, no need to prove itself. Just being there, in the moment, was enough.

I didn’t take many photos. Maybe I’ll look back at them one day and wonder why I didn’t capture more. But then again, some things are better remembered than recorded.