Liu Yang

The first thing that struck me about Edinburgh was the way the city seemed to breathe. Not in a loud, bustling way, but in a quiet, steady rhythm that made you pause and take notice. The cobblestone streets, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, felt like they held stories. I found myself wandering without a plan, which, in a way, was the best kind of plan.

I sat on a bench near the castle, watching the world go by. A group of students laughed over coffee, an old man fed pigeons with the same kind of patience you see in movies, and somewhere in the distance, a busker played a tune that made me stop in my tracks. It wasn’t just the sights that made the city special—it was the feeling of being part of something larger, something that had been alive long before me and would continue long after.

I didn’t rush through anything. I let the silence between moments speak. There was a calmness here, not because there was nothing happening, but because everything felt intentional. Even the rain, when it came, didn’t feel like an inconvenience. It just added another layer to the city’s character.

Edinburgh isn’t about speed or spectacle. It’s about presence. And in that presence, I found something unexpected—peace.