78 days: Memory of Minh

Today I decided to spend the afternoon at the Botanical Garden. The moment I stepped inside, I was greeted by a sense of calm that seemed to soften the hustle and bustle of the city outside. The air was crisp, with a subtle scent of flowers and earth. As I wandered through the garden paths, I found a quiet bench under a large banyan tree, its roots twisting elegantly like an ancient dance.

I spent much of the afternoon sketching the delicate interplay of light and shadow on the leaves, letting my mind wander with each stroke. There was something meditative about observing the shapes and textures, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind.

I met an elderly man named Minh, a local who comes to the gardens every week. He told me stories of how the city has changed over the decades, but the gardens, he said, have always remained a sanctuary. His words felt like an echo of the quiet resilience I've seen on my recent travels.

As the sun began to set, casting a soft glow over the garden, I felt a sense of gratitude for these simple moments of peace.