Liu Yang

The moment I stepped into the city, there was a quiet hum in the air—like the kind of energy that comes from centuries of stories being told. It wasn’t loud or flashy, but it had a way of pulling you in, making you want to slow down and notice the details. The streets were lined with old buildings, their facades worn but proud, each one holding its own little secret.

I wandered through narrow alleys where the sound of footsteps echoed just a bit longer than expected. There was a bakery on the corner that smelled like cinnamon and something vaguely nostalgic. I didn’t know why, but I felt at home there, even though I’d never been before. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a smile that reached her eyes, handed me a slice of something warm without asking for money. Just a gesture, but it stayed with me.

In the afternoon, I found myself in a small park, sitting on a bench under the shade of an old tree. A group of kids played nearby, their laughter mixing with the distant sound of a bus honking. It was one of those moments where everything feels just right, even if you don’t quite know why. I watched the way the light filtered through the leaves, casting patterns on the ground, and thought about how sometimes the best memories are made not by grand adventures, but by these quiet, unremarkable moments.

Later, I stumbled upon a bookshop tucked between two larger stores. The door creaked as I opened it, and the scent of paper and ink filled my lungs. I didn’t buy anything, but I spent a good hour flipping through books, some of which I didn’t even understand. Still, it felt like an adventure. The owner, a man with glasses perched on his nose, didn’t mind me lingering. He just nodded and said, “Find something that speaks to you.” I didn’t, but I left feeling like I had.