Lijiang is the kind of place where one visit is never enough—you'll inevitably start planning your return trip before you've even left.

Just last week, after enduring two grueling days of back-to-back work, I booked an early morning flight to Lijiang on the third day. The moment I stepped out of the airport, I was greeted by an expanse of crystal-clear blue sky—so vivid it seemed freshly washed, dazzlingly bright. That afternoon, without any itinerary, I wandered aimlessly through the ancient town with just my phone, meandering for three whole hours. The sun-warmed cobblestones underfoot glowed softly under the lazy sunlight, as if scattered with flecks of gold. At a street corner, an elderly Naxi woman's stall displayed an array of brass wind chimes; when the breeze stirred them, their crisp, tinkling notes collided like shards of sunlight breaking apart. The streams threading through the town babbled cheerfully, occasionally carrying a petal or two of pink-white blossoms as they drifted leisurely beneath stone bridges, unhurried and serene. Here, time feels as if someone has quietly turned the dial to half-speed. The accumulated stress and tension from fast-paced life melt away like ice cream softening in the sun, dissolving bit by bit into the cracks between cobblestones, carried off by the breeze from Sifang Street. As evening fell, a delicate drizzle began—light yet persistent—slowly transforming the ancient town into an ink-wash painting. The gray-blue eaves and walls glowed softly in the rain, while the lanterns along Sifang Street flickered to life, their amber light diffusing into hazy halos that floated like stars in the mist. On my way back to my lodgings, I suddenly remembered the unread work messages probably still sitting in my backpack—but who cared? Let them stay quietly in the unread list a little longer, until Lijiang's breeze has softened my heart enough to reply. How could anyone not want to return to a place like this?