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 diffused, as if the sun itself is taking its time. I wandered through narrow alleys where the buildings lean in close, whispering stories to each other. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet, maybe from a bakery I passed without stopping.

I found myself in a small café that felt like it had been there for decades. The owner didn’t seem surprised to see me, just nodded and poured me a cup of tea without asking. I sat by the window, watching people pass by—some with purpose, others just drifting, like they were waiting for something or someone. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet either. It was just… present.

There was a park nearby, not too big, but enough to feel like a breath of fresh air. I sat on a bench and watched a group of kids playing football, their laughter carrying across the grass. A couple walked by holding hands, and an old man fed pigeons with a bag of crumbs. It all felt so ordinary, yet somehow deeply meaningful. Like the city was reminding me that life doesn’t have to be dramatic to be worth living.

I didn’t plan much, and that was probably the best part. No guidebooks, no rush. Just me, a notebook, and the slow unfolding of a place that didn’t demand anything from me except to be there.