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Sometimes the air itself bows.

That evening, it did. Not in submission, but in reverence. The final light did not fall across her—rather, it unfolded from within her. A sandstone body surrounded by carved flame, yet so still she seemed to breathe silence.

She was not dancing. She was remembering the gesture that once called light from the dark.

I did not capture her. I stood near enough for stillness to welcome me.

Stone receives the flame—
not to hold, but to remind
how the gods once moved.


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