The hostel door buzzes open and the smell hits first — old wood, someone's instant noodles, a faint trace of cigarette smoke from the courtyard. Your bunk is on the second floor. The street outside is all unfamiliar signage and fast footsteps, a city already mid-sentence that doesn't need you to understand it yet. You have one booking, one bag, and no real idea what comes next. That was the point — but standing here now, it feels different than it did on paper. Somewhere in this city is a corner shop, a local who doesn't suffer fools, a stranger with good stories, and a message notification from someone back home asking if you're okay. You're not sure what to answer.