Lijiang says, "I know you'll come, so I'll wait..."

Lijiang always hides its thoughts in the flowing streams, in the patterns of the bluestone pavements, and in the perpetual snow atop Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. It whispers, "I know you'll come, so I'll wait"—a wait not of anxious anticipation, but of a long, almost tender practice. The morning mist in the ancient town always rises before the sun. The bluestone paths still carry the chill of last night's rain, while the wooden windows of Naxi homes creak open. Copper bells at the eaves sway gently in the wind, as if counting the days of waiting. An elderly woman in a blue cloth dress walks past the alley with a bamboo basket, the mushrooms inside glistening with dew. She knows a girl with a camera will eventually crouch down and ask, "Granny, were these mushrooms picked this morning?" And she’ll reply leisurely, "Yes, things from the mountains lose their freshness once the sun dries them out." Jade Dragon Snow Mountain is the most steadfast waiter. It casts its shadow over the meadows of Ganhaizi, watching wildflowers brush past ankles in spring, letting clouds nap on its shoulders in summer, counting pine needles turning yellow one by one in autumn, and bundling up in a white coat in winter—knowing that someday, a traveler will stand at the viewing platform, eyes reddening at its silhouette, murmuring, "So you really do look like the paintings." At its feet, yaks swish their tails as they graze, oblivious to human awe but familiar with chewing the same grass on the same slope for centuries, always startling a few mountain sparrows when new footsteps arrive. The streams of Sifang Street are the most talkative. Winding through the ancient town along bluestone channels, they gather the rice-washing water of Naxi households, the folk tunes from the bar street, and the laughter travelers accidentally drop. When someone crouches to wash their hands, the water swirls to lick their fingertips; when someone gazes at its surface, it reflects clouds to make them smile. It remembers the caravan men watering their horses here 300 years ago and the hanfu-clad girl who took a hundred photos yesterday. It knows these stories will flow away with the water, yet new ones will always drift downstream. The Naxi hearths never dim. In the wooden halls, copper kettles bubble over charcoal fires, and Dongba paper lanterns sway from the beams. An elder in dark woolen robes fingers his prayer beads, listening to a young backpacker talk of city neon. He doesn’t interrupt, only passing a cup of butter tea when the speaker’s throat runs dry: "Take your time. As long as the hearth burns, the tea won’t cool." The firewood crackles, as if echoing the unspoken words: See, even the flames wait for you to finish your story. Even the wind carries the warmth of waiting. It drifts through the stone bridges of Shuhe Ancient Town, rustles the reeds of Lashi Lake, and circles the pig-trough boats of Lugu Lake. It knows someone will stand on Lig Peninsula at dawn, waiting for the first sunlight to kiss the water; someone will sit at the foot of Jade Dragon Mountain at dusk, waiting for stars to flicker awake. So it slows its pace, steeping the scent of pine needles, the tang of lake water, and the flutter of prayer flags into the perfect welcome. Lijiang’s wait hides in every fleeting moment: an orange cat darting from an alley to brush your leg before sauntering off; a girl selling hand drums playing a familiar tune, adding an extra beat when she notices you pause; the sudden unveiling of the snow-capped mountain after rain, as if afraid you’d grow impatient. It never asks why you’re late or hurries you to leave. Like the shopkeepers who’ve spent lifetimes here, their doorframes carved with years yet always opening with a fresh smile, it understands: every heart yearning for freedom will eventually find its way here, guided by the mountains and waters. After all, it’s waited a thousand years—what’s one more season?