Is Luang Prabang worth a second visit?

When the morning mist has not yet dispersed, the orange of the monks' robes has already spread across the long street. The sound of sticky rice balls falling into the copper alms bowl awakens the frangipani flowers drooping under the eaves, with night dew still clinging to their white petals. The first cluster of flame trees bursts into bloom at noon, casting shadows into the Nam Khan River, scattering sunlight like silver scales. The ochre-red pagoda rises from the green tide, its golden bell swaying in sync with the fluttering of butterfly wings. The market steps are soaked dark brown by rain, but the old woman's bamboo basket overflows with the colors of the rainy season—limes and galangal, purple eggplants and golden bananas, sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves exuding a coconut fragrance. Monks walk barefoot through puddles, their robes brushing past the unfinished Narayana statue on the wood carving stall. Dusk always rises from Mount Phousi, and the sunset gilds the mosaic murals of Wat Xieng Thong with a second layer of gold leaf. Under the monastery walls, a few young novices are playing with fallen flowers using sticks, their youthful laughter startling the wind chimes hanging from the eaves. When the night market lanterns light up one by one, the breath of spring synchronizes with the flow of the Mekong River. Those unspoken wishes drift with the water lanterns into the darkness, becoming the faint phosphorescence at the riverbed. The people here have long learned to string the seasons into garlands, making spring not a passing guest, but a part of nature itself.