The morning market at 6 a.m.
Before dawn fully broke, tricycles lined up at the market entrance. The tofu vendor lifted a corner of her white cloth, and steam poured through the gap like a small river.
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Before dawn fully broke, tricycles lined up at the market entrance. The tofu vendor lifted a corner of her white cloth, and steam poured through the gap like a small river.
Found a bus ticket from three years ago; the paper is so brittle I dare not touch it. Back then, I took route 17 to work every day, and the windows were always fogged up.
Boil noodles in 3 minutes, heat water for 5 minutes, and set the table in 1 minute. But what truly brings peace of mind is the familiar scent of cooking oil rising from the kitchen.
The balcony stays damp during the rainy season, so clothes never fully dry. Yet in this very weather, plants thrive—sprouting two new leaves overnight.
Walk the same path three hundred times, and you'll start noticing things you missed before: a cat under which tree, whose door opens earliest, and which intersection has the strongest wind.
The bus is nearly empty at 11 p.m. City lights streak across the windows, slicing the urban landscape into thin strips—like flipping through a book too fast to read.