The morning light in Zhengyi Old Street arrives wrapped in mist.

The bluestone pavement, soaked by last night's rain, glistens underfoot, sending a coolness seeping up through the soles of your shoes. Without the crush of tourists or the glare of flashy signs, the old street lies quietly at the town's heart like an old cloth belt smoothed by time. Moss at the base of the walls, drunk with moisture, glows emerald between the bricks. Occasionally, a draft carries the faint fragrance of lotus leaves, rustling the strings of corn hanging under the eaves and shaking loose a sprinkle of fine dust. Lianrun Tower stands at the street's center, its wooden window frames slightly askew, with patches of peeling paint revealing pale yellow wood grain like veins on an elder's hand. The pond before the tower is the old street's eye, now half-lidded—dense with lotus leaves, their green so heavy it seems to weigh down the water. New leaves, still curled at the edges, have yet to unfurl, while older ones show hints of yellow at their margins, their veins clear in the sunlight. A few buds hide among the leaves, tinged with a blush of rouge, as if someone had dabbed them shyly with a brush, too timid to lift their heads. Not yet in full bloom, they hold themselves in reserve, carrying more promise than if they were wide open, as though waiting for some appointed hour to gently unfold the secrets they've kept all spring. Most shops along the street open late. The grocery store's double wooden doors are slowly unlatched by the owner, each plank landing with a dull thud that startles the sparrows pecking at the pond's edge. Next door, the aroma of scallions and lard wafts from the noodle shop, where the old chef tosses ingredients in a wok, the crisp clang of spatula against metal more telling than any sales pitch. An elderly woman in a blue cloth shirt walks past with a bamboo basket of freshly picked greens, pausing at the sight of the buds to murmur, "Soon, in a few days, dragonflies will come to rest here." Lianrun Tower's second floor overlooks the pond. Its old-fashioned lattice window creaks when pushed open, as if answering in a whisper. Leaning on the sill, you can spot small fish darting between the lotus leaves, their tails flicking to shatter the clouds reflected on the water's surface. At the distant alley mouth, an old man sits on a bamboo chair smoking a pipe, the ember in its bowl flickering. His smoke rings drift over the pond, scattering into the gaps between the leaves at the wind's touch. Here, commercialization is as faint as the pond's water. There are no vendors hawking lotus hairpins, no crowds jostling for photos by the water, not even Lianrun Tower itself demanding attention—it simply stands, quiet as an old neighbor who's kept watch for years. It doesn't rush the lotuses to bloom or hurry visitors along, content to wait with this pond of half-open flowers, lingering in the old street's morning mist and evening hues for the slow unfurling of their season. Perhaps in days to come, the buds will open one by one, their pink-white petals dewdrop-kissed, brightening the pond's surface. But what moves the heart most about Zhengyi Old Street now, along with this pond of half-open lotuses, is precisely this sense of the unfinished—like an unwritten poem, its blank spaces holding the wind's whispers, the bluestones' memories, and all those unhurried, growing moments left undisturbed.