To Wuhan, I have always been but a transient guest. Each brief stay ends as soon as it begins—a fleeting taste of duck necks, yet an endless aftertaste of the city’s vibrant life. Passing through Hankou in a rush, I encountered a misty drizzle on Jianghan Road. The cherry blossoms, brimming with spring, kissed my clothes damp, making my footsteps flee in a shy retreat. Only the shutter’s click captured a lingering trace. Within half an hour, I was forced to board the train again. These fragmented yet vivid slices of time feel like a surreal dream in the montage of my journey.