Guest User
April 11, 2025
I have stayed in many hotels. Some are like post stations, where you only stay for a night and then forget about them; others are like old friends, which linger in my heart even after we part. The place where we stayed this time was the latter.
The room is on the fifth floor. When I opened the door and walked in, I was stunned at first. The space was so big. The night outside the window was as dark as ink, and the lighting inside was gentle, quite dreamy.
The mattress was extremely clean and dazzlingly white, but not the kind of glaring white, but a milky white with a slight warmth. Lying down on it, it felt like lying on the clouds, and all the fatigue of the past few days disappeared in an instant.
When I woke up in the morning, I heard birds singing outside the window. In the misty bathroom, the figure in the mirror was blurry and I could hardly recognize myself. I think the fun of traveling lies in this moment of strangeness and freshness.
The breakfast food is not rich and luxurious, but everything is exquisite. Especially a bowl of white porridge, which was cooked very glutinous and served with pickles, it actually tasted like home. Sitting by the window, I watched the lake gradually waking up, with ripples sparkling, and I felt like a bystander.
When checking out, the receptionist smiled and didn't say much. I suddenly thought that a good hotel is probably like this - not disturbing, but always appearing quietly when needed; not ostentatious, but thoughtfulness is shown everywhere.
He walked out the door and looked back again. The building stood in the morning light, quiet as usual. I think there will be new guests checking in tonight, and a new story will be played out inside that window. And this part of mine has become a memory.
Memories are always good, especially such quiet and silent memories.
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