Hongkong.

Rain had come and gone, leaving the streets glistening under neon lights. The city stretched in every direction, a maze of alleys and staircases where footsteps echoed like distant memories. Beneath the glow of an old streetlamp, two figures stood in quiet familiarity, their silhouettes framed against the towering skyline.

The world around them pulsed with the rhythm of a Hong Kong film—muffled conversations drifting from an open teahouse, the soft rattle of a tram in the distance, the faint melody of a song from another decade playing through a shop’s old radio. Every glance, every movement, felt like something already seen before, something captured in the quiet melancholy of a screen long ago.

A slow walk through Temple Street, weaving between fortune tellers and food stalls. A pause at an old theater, where faded posters still clung to the walls, their colors worn by time. A fleeting moment in a narrow corridor, where the air carried the scent of rain and nostalgia.

This city had always told stories in the spaces between words, in the weight of a glance, in the way lights flickered against a quiet night. Perhaps that was why every moment felt like a scene from the past—something familiar, something unfinished, something that would never quite fade away.