Sounds of everyday Beijing through seasons of 2025

*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 human-centered glimpses into culture, history and everyday life across China through measured pace and intimate storytelling.

Looking back on 2025 through sound revealed how much of Beijing I had come to absorb by the simple act of listening. Cities are usually remembered through visuals – impressive skylines, busy streets and historical landmarks – but over the seasons, Beijing revealed itself to me through everyday sounds.

Spring announced itself with force. Sharp winds swept through wide avenues and narrow lanes. Rain followed, accompanied by incessant rolls of thunder that echoed between buildings. The city was shaking itself awake with the promise of renewal.

Summer arrived with cicadas. Their steady, almost electric chorus filled the trees outside apartment windows and office compounds. The sound gradually dissolved into the metallic rush of subway doors sliding open, platform announcements bouncing through tunnels, footsteps syncing into a collective morning rush hour rhythm. Mornings and evenings became brief windows of relief from the heat and humidity, when the city cooled down slightly and outdoor life resumed.

Autumn softened everything. Colors deepened, and the air grew lighter, cooler, carrying a breeze that made you want to slow down, take in the scenery and not look at your watch. Leaves whispered underfoot, parks filled with quieter conversations, and the city seemed to exhale from summer heat.

Winter, by contrast, crept in unceremoniously. One moment, you are still holding onto the fiery palette of fall; the next, temperatures plunge below zero. Fingers stiffen, breath turns visible, and the body learns to brace itself. Yet indoors, warmth prevails – thanks to the centralized heating system provided to cities north of the Huai River, Beijing included. A small but meaningful comfort, as you hold on to the hope of spring.

Traffic has its own language in Beijing. The near-silence of electric cars idling at intersections, the brief impatience of a scooter horn, and the ever-present bicycles weaving through the hutong.

And then, unexpectedly, the noise falls away. At the Liangma River, the city exhales. Water carries gentler sounds – leaves brushing against one another, reflections trembling softly on the surface. It's the same city, but a different register.

Looking back, some of my favorite moments are the smallest. Friends waving as I try to capture their joyous moments. A savory, texturally rich roujiamo (famously called the Chinese hamburger) passed into my hands by a smiling food-truck vendor, warm steam rising into the night, the smell of egg, duck and sauce lingering in the air. The brittle crinkle of paper as tanghulu is placed in and handed over, sugar shell cracking lightly beneath teeth. The low hum of refrigerators in the convenience store near my home late at night, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The cheerful calls that welcome diners into alleyway eateries. And among it all, the pauses – an alley after rain, a park just before dusk, where an old man is out practicing his daily tai chi, despite the biting cold.

Sound doesn't demand attention the way images do; you just naturally tune in. So when I look back on this year, I don't see it in still frames. I hear it unfolding in layers of sounds – sometimes uneven, but nonetheless very real.