From the first day she arrived in Lianhai, Muyao had opened Rednote while waiting for her food at a local breakfast stall. Scrolling through posts from travelers, one video caught her eye: Yunxi in winter.
Mist curled through narrow mountain streets, snow-dusted rooftops glimmered under soft lantern light, and the river cutting through the town released gentle wisps of steam. The caption read, "Winter in Yunxi—where time slows down."
Muyao watched it twice, mesmerized. After the sun and warmth of Lianhai, the quiet, slow life of Yunxi seemed almost magical. In that instant, she decided—before even finishing her breakfast—that she would stop there before returning to Hua City.
The morning Muyao left Lianhai, the city was already awake. Sunlight spilled across the coastline, casting a warm glow over the palm-lined roads and quiet harbors. She stood by the window one last time, suitcase resting by her side, watching the sea breathe in slow, steady rhythms. Five days had passed quickly—too quickly—but they had done what she needed them to do.
She didn't linger. Goodbyes, she'd learned, didn't need to be dramatic to be meaningful.
Soon, the warmth of Lianhai would give way to Yunxi's quiet mountains and misty streets—a world entirely different and entirely hers to explore.
Muyao's flight to Yunxi was short, giving her time to watch the mountains roll by, mist curling along the valleys below. When the plane touched down, the difference was immediate. The air was cooler, carrying a faint scent of pine and damp earth. She pulled her wool coat tighter around her shoulders, grateful for the warmth she had prepared back in Lianhai.
Yunxi, a small fourth-tier city tucked between the mountains, was quiet and unassuming. Stone and wooden buildings lined narrow streets, their muted colors blending with the soft winter light. Lanterns hung from eaves, swaying gently in the breeze. A river wound lazily through the town, reflecting the glow of the late afternoon sky.
There were no crowds. No tourists. No flashing cameras. Only the steady rhythm of everyday life: a shopkeeper sweeping outside his store, a few neighbors exchanging greetings, and the occasional cyclist gliding past.
Her driver led her along the winding streets to the guesthouse she had booked—a simple, stone-and-wood building with a small courtyard at its center. The faint aroma of tea leaves and polished wood greeted her, a grounding scent that made the quiet feel alive. Lanterns hung above, casting a soft glow across the courtyard, and a lone tree in the center stood resilient and green against the winter air.
Muyao set her suitcase down and paused, taking it all in. Yunxi didn't demand attention. It didn't try to impress anyone. Here, she could move at her own pace, notice details others overlooked, and simply exist without expectation.
For the first time in days, she felt completely unseen—and completely free.
The next morning, Muyao stepped out into the crisp air, the soft winter sun filtering through the low clouds. She wore the coat and scarves she had picked up in Lianhai, comfortably warm as she wandered the narrow streets.
The town moved at its own gentle rhythm. A small market bustled quietly in a central square—stalls draped in simple cloths, the aroma of freshly baked buns and simmering soups mingling with the earthy scent of firewood and stone. She paused at one stall, tasting a delicate steamed dumpling, the warmth spreading through her fingers as she held it.
At another, a vendor smiled as she picked up a carved wooden trinket, chatting in the local dialect. Muyao smiled back, letting herself be absorbed by the small, everyday interactions that made the town feel alive. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting long shadows on cobblestone streets, and the river murmured softly beside her as she walked along its edge.
By midday, she had wandered through quiet alleys, stumbled upon a tiny teahouse tucked into a corner, and watched the gentle flow of life around her. There were no flashy signs, no crowds, and no one vying for attention—just a city existing on its own terms, and she could exist alongside it without effort.
As the sun began to dip toward the mountains, Muyao found a small terrace overlooking the river. Pulling out her camera, she captured the soft light bouncing off snow-dusted rooftops, the smoke curling from chimneys, and the gentle movement of water below. Each frame felt like a quiet story, a piece of a world untouched by rush or spectacle.
By the time she returned to the guesthouse, the sky had deepened into shades of purple and gold. She hung her coat, set her camera to upload the day's captures, and poured herself a cup of tea. Sitting by the window, she let the warmth seep in and watched Yunxi settle into the quiet night.
Here, in this small, overlooked city, she could breathe. She could move slowly. She could simply be.
The quiet didn't feel lonely.
As night settled fully over Yunxi, the town grew even softer. Lantern light traced the curves of the streets below, and the river reflected scattered stars like fragments of glass drifting on water. Somewhere in the distance, wind brushed through bare branches, carrying the faint sound of chimes.
Muyao reached for her phone.
She selected a few clips from the day—brief, unpolished moments. The morning mist clinging to rooftops. Steam rising from a food stall. The river at dusk, slow and patient. She uploaded them to Weibo with a short caption:
"Yunxi, day one.A small city, a slow pace, and a sky full of quiet."
No explanations. No defenses. Just where she was, and how it felt.
She set the phone aside and let the tea cool between her palms.
A moment later, it buzzed again.
She smiled faintly and tapped to answer.
The screen filled with familiar faces—her parents, and behind them, her brothers drifting into view one by one.
"Are you settled?" Xia Xuexing asked immediately, her voice warm but attentive.
"I am," Muyao replied. She turned the phone toward the window. "Look."
The camera caught the night—stars scattered clearly across the sky, fireflies flickering near the courtyard, lanterns glowing softly along the riverbank. Yunxi revealed itself without effort.
Lin Anguo exhaled slowly. "It's quiet."
"That's the point," Muyao said, smiling.
Lin Muchuan nodded slightly. "Good choice."
Lin Bohan leaned closer to the screen, squinting at the view. "You always end up in places like this."
They didn't talk for long. They didn't need to. The call was less about words and more about reassurance—about being seen, even from far away.
After she ended it, Muyao remained by the window, watching the fireflies drift lazily through the dark.
Tomorrow could wait.
Schedules could wait.
For now, Yunxi held her gently—an overlooked city, moving quietly forward, asking nothing from her except to exist within it.
And that was enough.