Winter’s Persimmon Flames Gentle the Silent Village

In the winter villages of Dali, warmth gathers among layers of wooden roofs and branches heavy with bright orange persimmons. The dark eaves cascade down the hillside like the quiet ridges of a mountain, holding the gentle breath of time. Between the rooftops, a slice of blue sky glimmers, lit by the fiery fruit — like tiny embers left behind by the season. Along the narrow path, a villager walks slowly with a bundle of firewood, each step soft yet steady, as if treading through the heart of time. Life here is unhurried and unadorned, telling its stories through the scent of wood, a wisp of smoke, and the tender glow of winter persimmons.