Busan is a city suspended between two worlds — the restless sea and the steadfast mountains. Here, the mornings arrive slowly, with a pale light spilling over fishing boats, the scent of salt and grilled mackerel drifting through narrow alleys. The city hums quietly at first, then builds into a chorus of voices, footsteps, and the distant call of gulls.
In the markets, colors bloom in every direction — silver fish shimmering on ice, baskets overflowing with peppers and herbs, vendors calling out prices like fragments of a song. By the shore, waves fold and unfold endlessly, their rhythm shaping the day as much as the clock.
Busan is not a place you simply see; it is a place you feel in the pauses between moments — in the steam rising from a street vendor’s pot, in the reflection of neon lights rippling across the harbor at night, in the stillness of a temple hidden in the hills.
These photographs are my attempt to listen to that heartbeat. They are fragments of encounters, traces of light, and the quiet poetry of ordinary life by the sea. They do not aim to capture the whole of Busan — only the way it breathed the days I was there.
