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Take a walk along the Longsheng Rice Terraces, and you might see things you wouldn’t expect. With the thick fog surrounding you like a cushion and the horizon like a scene from a Tang dynasty ink wash painting. Standing there, struggling to see or breathe, as the weak pastel yellow sun casts strange shadows. You have found yourself on the Dragon’s Backbone. We landed in Guilin Airport the night before. A deserted building without a soul, save our little group. The lights at the far ends of the airport were turned off, casting eerie shadows, and no one really dared to talk - it felt almost taboo to do so. Quickly leaving, we stepped out, breathing in the Guilin air for the first time as our tour guide struggled to make contact with the bus driver. With Longsheng County being 100 km away from Guilin, we had a long bus journey ahead of us. The only light was the driver’s light in the front seat, and you could not see anything outside save for the faint silhouettes of houses and fields, passing by in a hazy black blur. That morning was a struggle. We had reached the hotel at 3 and told to assemble at 6am, and my mother and I stumbled in for breakfast, exhausted. In most hotels, one might be used to a continental breakfast, as well as some steamed buns and congee. In Longsheng, however, there was only one thing to eat - noodles. Those were some of the best noodles I ever tasted. The broth was thick and hearty, dripping down our throat like syrup. The noodles smooth and tender, filling us with warmth as we sat in the big chairs by the window, watching the brown leaves dancing in the garden. We took another bumpy bus ride to the foot of the mountain. From there, you would start the climb to the vantage. Off we went. One foot ahead of the other, on a broad path that gradually became narrower and more slippery as you ascend. Around us, the scene began to take shape. A little village. Wooden house after wooden house, we passed dusty cafes, noodle shops and empty hostels, all abandoned. It was strange - we saw no locals, yet the evidence of human life remained. Laundry hanging from a pole, teacups left on teahouse tables, there was a bit of construction left midway. You could almost imagine that upon hearing the news of our arrival, the locals immediately went into hiding. In that place, life was suspended, caught like a fly in amber, like a village preserved in thick mist. You could almost touch the tiny droplets of dew, and no matter how much you strained your ears, you would not be able to hear anything. No birds, no people, perhaps the occasional trickle of water, and of course, the consistent sound of footsteps on rock, heavy breathing. Even after the end of the world, this place would remain unchanged. The air continued getting thinner as my Mother and I ascended, but we finally reached the top. With the rest of the tour group behind us, we were lucky to get the first view. I wish I could tell you of the majestic beauty of the rice fields, illuminated by the sun over the horizon. No. the fog had covered everything. You could tell our tour guide was disappointed. Only the faint outline of rice terraces, the gentle curves like ink strokes, lovingly painted by rice farmers with sickles into a soft earth canvas. As my mother and I descended, we were met with the same silence. But it was no longer unnerving. Escaping the hustle and bustle of the city, standing high up in the foggy mountains and overlooking rice terraces that had existed since dynasties past, you wouldn’t feel out of place. How could you? As you breathe in the thick air, moist with dew, take in the rice terraces gone hazy with mist, you would feel one with the world, part of the natural landscape. That you were just another creature in a vast universe, fortunate to take it all in. Timeless.