Place record · #617
The quay grows quieter to the right. Market noise thins behind you until the river and the soft creak of mooring ropes become louder than the crowd. Trees lean over the water here, their branches threaded with small white lights that sway independently of the wind. A narrow landing serves low boats with covered seats and little brass lamps at bow and stern. Their keepers speak softly, naming downstream stops with gestures toward dark stretches of bank, garden walls, and distant clusters of lanterns. Ahead, the landing continues beneath the trees toward a riverside garden where white lights hang almost to the ground. To the left, a shallow flight of steps climbs to a row of late tea houses with their windows open to the river. To the right, a boat is taking on passengers for somewhere farther downstream, beyond the last visible bridge. A woman waiting with a basket of flowers tears one blossom into three pieces and drops them into the current one by one. The first two drift downstream. The third moves briefly against the current before joining them. Nobody watching reacts.
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