I was in The Summer Palace, Beijing to watch sunset in a smog afternoon. I saw a white stone bridge arcs gently across still waters, beneath the waning sun, its reflection trembling in the hush of twilight. Golden roofs glimmer like ancient crowns, nestled among hills that fold into one another like layers of memory. The distant pagoda stands sentinel, its pale silhouette reaching toward the heavens as if in quiet dialogue with the fading light. Mountains recede into mist, each ridge a breath closer to eternity. Here, time softens. The bridge is not merely passage—it is promise: a threshold between the mortal hush and the immortal quiet beyond.