Liu Yang

The city hums with a quiet energy, not the kind that shouts for attention but the kind that lingers in the air, in the way people move through the streets, in the stories etched into old buildings. There’s a certain rhythm to it—slow, deliberate, almost like it’s reminding you to take your time.

I wandered through narrow alleys where the cobblestones seem to remember every footstep. A few cafes line the path, their windows fogged with steam and conversation. The smell of fresh bread and something sweet wafts out, mingling with the damp air. It’s easy to get lost here, not because the streets are confusing, but because there's so much to see, so much to feel.

A man in a tweed jacket sat on a bench, reading a book. He didn’t look up when I passed, but I felt his presence, like he was part of the scene, as much as the ivy climbing the walls or the distant sound of a bus honking. People here don’t rush. They walk with purpose, but not urgency. There’s a patience in them, a quiet confidence that comes from knowing where they’re going and how to get there.

I stopped by a small shop that sells nothing but vintage postcards. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a warm smile, handed me one with a view of the same street I was walking down. “It’s always better to look back,” she said. I didn’t ask what she meant, but I kept it in my pocket anyway.

There’s a sense of history everywhere, but it doesn’t weigh you down. It’s more like a companion, walking beside you, sharing its stories in hushed tones. You can feel it in the way the light hits the stone, in the way the wind carries the scent of the sea from somewhere far off.

This city doesn’t need to be loud to be remembered. It just is. And in that stillness, there’s a kind of beauty that stays with you long after you’ve left.