Editor's note: Zaruhi Poghosyan is a multimedia editor for CGTN Digital. This article is part of China, Soft Focus – a slow journalism series that offers textured, human-centered glimpses into China through measured pace and intimate storytelling. 

It was my third morning in Qingdao, and the city felt softer somehow with the early light. The air was rinsed clean from yesterday's rain, carrying the faint brine of the sea and the slow stir of its waking streets. 

Stepping through the gates of Zhanshan Temple, nestled in the southern slopes of Zhanshan Mountain, literally translated as "clear" or "deep mountain," felt like opening a door to another world beneath tall, verdant pine trees.There was a kind of unhurried rhythm here. A few locals sat on low stools under a makeshift tent, chatting softly and sipping tea from small glass jars, the steam disappearing into the soft morning light. An old lady fed crumbs to the doves that hopped eagerly between her feet.

A thin veil of incense drifted through the open gate, and I could faintly hear a mantra coming from one of the several halls dotting the complex: "Om mani padme hum."

This six-syllable ancient mantra, meaning "Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus," symbolizes the path to enlightenment through compassion and wisdom in Tibetan Buddhism. Associated with Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion, each syllable is said to purify aspects of human imperfection – ego, jealousy, ignorance, and hatred – guiding one toward inner clarity and awakening.

I followed the chant.

Outside the main hall stood rows of black iron pavilions – small, shrine-like shelters where pink lotus candles and incense burned in pools of melted wax. The air shimmered with the smoke and warmth.

A few steps away, rows of wooden prayer plaques hung neatly along a wall of stone, chiming softly every time a breeze passed through. Each one bore people's hopes for health, love, or blessings, in neat Chinese characters, 

Inside the main hall, the murmur of voices deepened. This is where the mantra was coming from. Buddha statues sat with perfectly serene expressions on their faces – two on each side, three in the center. I found myself standing still, my own breathing falling into rhythm with the chant.

Now, I am not a very religious person. But that morning, standing before the golden figures, I felt something open quietly inside me. It began as warmth in my chest, rising and swelling until it spilled over. My palms came together almost instinctively, lips moving before my mind could follow. Tears came next: not of sorrow, but a gentle fullness I couldn't yet name. For a weightless moment, I felt both infinite and small, yet heard and seen. 

When I stepped back outside, my mind felt inexplicably lighter. 

Watching the visitors flow in and out of the temple halls, it struck me that in this country of so many faiths, where temples, mosques and churches stand side by side, coexistence is a living practice, and faith isn't a matter of separation like in many parts of the world, but of unity.

Next on my list was another architectural beauty – St. Michael's Cathedral. A short taxi ride brought me to Zhejiang Road, where old European façades and historic buildings lined the cobblestone road.

I followed a narrow one uphill. The air of incense still clinging to my hair gave way to the scent of roasted chestnuts in the small open-air market lining the sides of the road. A few more steps, and the Cathedral came into view.

Its twin spires cut into the sky, pale yellow against the blue, and for a moment it seemed like a small piece of Europe had drifted ashore. Couples lined the square, posing for photos near the rows of mirrors. An artist, seated by the curb, sketched the cathedral with practiced ease, his pencil tracing the spires against the paper.

The cathedral itself, now partly a museum, felt less like a place of prayer and more like a vessel of memory – of centuries and empires, and maybe of those who came searching for God across the sea.

When I stepped inside, the hush returned. Light poured through stained glass in muted reds and blues, spilling over wooden pews and the tiled floor. I walked slowly down the aisle, mesmerized by the way light traced my hands.

Two worlds, I thought – the temple and the cathedral – each with its own rhythm, its own way of touching the divine. One through incense and repetition, the other through color and songs. And yet here in Qingdao, they coexist with quiet ease, sharing this same faithful morning light.

I understood something simple and enduring – that faith, however you name it, is the human wish to find meaning in the noise and stillness within all the rush and movement that we call life.

After spending the morning and afternoon between incense and stained glass, I felt drawn toward the sea – as if the quiet I had found in places of worship needed a horizon to rest upon. So I followed the city's slope downhill, letting the historic streets carry me toward the water. 

At the old Zhanqiao Pier, waves slapped against stone, as they have for more than a century since it was built by Germans in the late 19th century. Every city has such a bridge between past and present – a place where memory lingers but life moves forward. 

The curved eaves of the iconic Huilan Pavilion at the far end, built later in 1930, felt like quiet sentinels watching over generations of arrivals and farewells. Standing there, I felt part of that long continuum of footsteps leading outward and returning.

The tide lapped against the pilings below, and a faint wind lifted the smell of seaweed and salt. I leaned against the stone railing and watched women in sleek swimming gear wading through the shallows by the shore, gathering clams and shells from between stones with practiced hands. 

The longer I watched, the more the pier felt like a meeting point – both between sea and shore and the city's past and present. 

I left with the sense that I hadn't finished something here, only paused it – a quiet promise to come back when the tides of Qingdao call me once more.