The first thing that hits you when you step into the city is the quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels empty, but the kind that hums with history and possibility. The streets are lined with old buildings, their facades worn but proud, each one telling a story you can almost hear if you listen closely enough.
I wandered through narrow alleys where the cobblestones seemed to echo with the footsteps of centuries past. A local told me once that every corner here has a secret, and I believe it. There’s something about the way the light falls on the stone walls, the way the air smells like a mix of rain and old wood, that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a different time.
The people are warm, not in an overbearing way, but in a way that makes you feel seen. You don’t have to say much to be understood. A smile, a nod, a shared glance—there’s a quiet understanding that passes between strangers here.
I found a small café tucked away behind a bookshop, where the owner served tea in chipped mugs and played jazz records so softly they were almost a part of the silence. It was there I met a woman who had lived in the city for thirty years and still found new things to love about it every day. She said the city doesn’t change much, but you do, and that’s what keeps it fresh.
There’s a certain rhythm to life here. It’s not fast, not slow, just steady. You move with it, and in time, it moves with you. I don’t know how long I’ll stay, but I know this: whatever happens next, I’ll carry this place with me. Not as a memory, but as a part of me.
发表于 
Mark
