Quiet Night
This semester, on Fridays, classes end one period earilier, therefore I can get home a little earlier than nightfall. The wind on the stairwell is slightly cool. Pushing open the door and carrying my bag, I climb up to the rooftop. Somehow, the city’s noise feels filtered out by the layers of green. The evening light spreads softly across my skin, and the sunset drifts lazily across the sky, as if the air itself has absorbed its warmth.
I set up my time-lapse camera to capture the subtle shifts of the sun as it sinks. I bring a chair and sit down, leaving the lights off, letting my shadow merge with the darkening sky. Around me, windows of nearby buildings light up one by one, as if the city itself is breathing. Night slowly fills the space around me, quiet and real.
Looking down, I see my little rooftop garden. Rows of tiny greens sway gently in the wind. Among the steel and concrete of the city, this patch of life feels unusually soft. The vines stretch upward, moonlight catching on their leaves, giving them a faint silver glow. I take pictures of them, quietly recording the calm that surrounds me.
When I grow tired of staring, I watch the cat rolling in the corner, sometimes jumping onto the chair beside me, seeming to enjoy this peaceful moment as well. Each breath feels like drawing a pocket of calm out of the busy streets, placing it gently in my chest. There are no cars honking, no hurried footsteps, just the wind, the sunset, the lights, and the softly swaying leaves, along with a heart that wants to slow down.
The rooftop sunset, the greenery of the garden, the faintly glowing windows, let me find a small piece of calm in the city. This warmth feels like lying in the embrace of the earth, quietly watching the night slowly spread over the world.
When a typhoon comes, the whole building grows quiet. The wind gathers in the distance like waves stacking upon waves, but it never frightens me. As long as it is not strong enough to tear things apart, a typhoon feels less like a danger and more like a feast of tranquility; indoors held in stillness, outdoors rising and heaving at the same time.
In the thick of summer, I like it even more. I climb to the rooftop without an umbrella, letting the rain find me on its own. Up there, our small garden trembles in the wind. Bamboo poles knock softly against metal chains, making a thin, wandering sound, something like a wind chime that has forgotten its melody. The vines we planted in early spring seem most alive on days like this; their broad leaves flip over in the gusts, the pale underside flashing again and again.
I slide our old ladder between the gaps in the vines and climb up as if climbing the mast of a ship. The vines wrap around the bamboo frames, weaving the whole rooftop into a rough, patient net of green. When I lift my head above the leaves, I see the patchwork of our garden beneath me: wet wooden boards, mismatched pots, reused foam boxes. They sit quietly in the storm, the most unassuming roots of our home.
Rain drums on the leaves. The wind gathers them all in one direction, then suddenly sweeps them the other way. The entire canopy rises and sinks in great waves, as if the sea has taken shape above the city. Sometimes a small yellow blossom is torn loose and spins for a moment before landing flat on the boards. In the storm, the garden feels larger than it ever is on clear days.
The rain on my hair feels cool at first, then warm as it runs down. I lean against the bamboo frame and watch the vines bend, lift, bend again. They look fragile, but they hold fast; they seem to know how to meet the wind without resisting it too much. Below, the alleys of the village blur in the rain until they look like a faded pattern. But the green sea around me stays sharp and close.
A typhoon for me always brings a strange closeness. It's a moment when the roughest part of the city leads me to its softest place. Each time the wind rises, I feel as if I am returning to this floating green sea again, held up by its quiet strength, carried by its restless waves.