In winter, snow gently covered Song City's old-fashioned streets, leaving the stone-paved roads especially quiet.
The biting north wind swept past the old opera stage, carrying a chill. Only a few covered boats rocked quietly on the misty river.
People hurried beneath oil-paper umbrellas past little bridges and flowing water, leaving trails of footprints in the snow.
On a stone bridge, the last notes of a tune drifted away on the breeze. Its simple melody wove together with the hushed old city into a moving picture.
Moss mottled the pavilions and towers. Amid the ice and snow, the marks of time seemed deeper than ever.
Now and then, a child's laughter broke the stillness. Bundled in thick padded coats, children chased one another through the snow, their delight a sharp contrast to the old city's quiet dignity.
Cooking smoke rose in wisps, passing through the thin winter air and drifting into the distance.
Warmth filled every brick-and-tile house. Food simmered slowly in pots, sending out tempting aromas.
Even in the cold of winter, the people of Song City found ways to live warmly.
Snow made the storefronts look deserted, but the occasional glow spilling from within hinted at thriving business.
Few people walked the market streets. The occasional sounds of trading and hawking had lost none of their old liveliness, yet lent the streets a touch of peace and simplicity.
Deep in the alleys, age marked the mottled walls beside the old stone paths. The ancient city's charm seemed magnified, its accumulated history held fast in one beautiful scene after another.
Without the clamor of visitors, winter in Song City invited quiet reflection. Every corner told a story, and every inch of ground held history. On this snow-covered ancient land, time seemed to slow, letting people forget the noise of