From a distance, the Great Hall of the People looks almost too perfect—massive, symmetrical, draped in layers of green tile and red pillars, like a temple built for bureaucracy. The late afternoon light softens it a little, throwing long shadows across the plaza, warming the concrete just enough to give the place a pulse.

It’s grand, no doubt. Heavy with symbolism. But stand there long enough, watching kids run across the square and old men lean into quiet conversations on the steps, and it feels less like a monument and more like what it is—another piece of the city, still in use, still alive.