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The heat was nearly gone, but the air still shimmered—caught between the hush of evening and the breath of stone. On the western gopura, the light had begun to lower its voice. That’s when I saw her.

Not a carving, not an image. A gesture, held open. A smile, half-shadowed. Her foot lifted, her gaze eternal and tender. The wall seemed to pulse—not with motion, but with memory. The jungle around me fell quiet. I waited, as if for her to finish the step.

Stone flickers with flame—
her joy kindles dusk to gold,
a breath caught mid-turn.

I did not press the shutter quickly. It was more like listening than seeing. The camera waited with me. Later, the film would hold her silence. But in that moment, I felt her invite the light to stay a little longer.


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