The city sprawled across many gentle hills, each rising and falling like soft waves frozen in time. Between two of these hills lay clusters of small houses, tucked neatly into the folds of the land as if the earth itself had made room for them. These homes looked like quiet secrets kept by the mountains, their rooftops just barely peeking through trees and snow. Scattered among them were larger dwellings—multi-student houses built with a striking blend of both Oriental grace and Western charm. Some had sweeping eaves and sliding paper doors, while others boasted stone chimneys and arched wooden windows, all woven together in perfect harmony.
The use of wood throughout the city was especially notable. From doorways and balconies to window frames and shutters, the natural grain of timber added warmth and personality to every structure. No two homes looked the same, yet all shared a gentle, artistic spirit. It was clear that the people here were not just builders but creators—people who saw their houses as extensions of themselves. The exterior decorations varied from hand-painted signs to delicately carved ornaments, wind chimes that sang softly in the breeze, and little lanterns that lit the pathways like scattered stars. One of my dear friends lived in this beautiful city. I was lucky enough to stay with them for a while, their home nestled on a slope with wide windows that opened to the hills beyond. It was a cozy house, filled with books, plants, and the comforting scent of old wood and fresh tea. There was something incredibly grounding about it—a sense of belonging even though I was just a visitor.
At night, I would sit by the window and gaze out into the horizon. The hills melted into darkness, their shapes outlined faintly by the moonlight. The moon itself hung low and large, casting silver light across the rooftops and illuminating the snowy slopes in a ghostly, magical glow. The world outside turned quiet and slow, as if holding its breath. Those dreamy nights had an almost unreal quality to them. When the moonlight spread across the hills, filtering through the pine trees and settling gently on the wooden homes, the entire city seemed to transform. It felt like I was living inside a painting—one brushed with soft blues and silvers, with shadows that danced and glimmers that shimmered like whispered poetry.
In those moments, time stood still. The peacefulness of the hills, the warmth of my friend’s home, and the moon bathing the world in light—all of it created a strange and beautiful atmosphere. One that lingered in my memory long after I left, like a melody that plays quietly in the background of your thoughts, forever reminding you of a place where dreams and reality touched.
