As the boat glides slowly along the waters of the Yangtze, heading toward Shanghai, I listen — without meaning to — to a conversation unfolding beside me.
“Time is strange,” one of them says. “I remember the first time I traveled down this river. I was just a boy. My father came to sell fabrics made in our village. I went with him to learn how to trade.”
“In what way is time strange?” the other asks. “I see nothing unusual.”
“It’s strange because, back then, words carried their own weight. My father negotiated, and that was enough. Today, agreements require documents, signatures, proof that the deal truly exists.”
For a moment, something along the riverbank draws their attention. They fall silent and sip their tea. When the cup is nearly empty, the first man adds, almost to himself:
“Time is strange… because not even the rivers remain the same.”