Some places keep their ghosts close. In Xi’an, they live in the stone and dust, in buried faces and old steel, in walls catching the last light. The past isn’t preserved so much as simply there—underfoot, in the smoke, at the table. Then come the mountains: Ruifang, Pingxi, Jintong, green rising against concrete, temple smoke mingling with the evening, lanterns glowing through the dusk. And beyond it all, Kaohsiung—the sea, the port, the long pull of the horizon. Someone lights incense. Silk catches the light. Old steel slips into shadow, and a train disappears into the hills. You look, you wait, the light changes, and for a moment, nothing needs to be explained.
George Morgan
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© George Morgan 2026