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The last hush of night clung to the fig leaves like breath withheld.  Rain had moved on, but its presence lingered—in scent, in shadow, in the way water tucked itself into the seams of stone.  The forest did not wake so much as deepen.

I approached the doorway slowly.  The roots were not wrapped, but woven—fig and spung braided into one living threshold, one memory of ascent and surrender.  Stone, too, had softened.  Beneath the Kala’s devouring mouth, a lintel held the impression of prayer, half-eclipsed by bark.  The shadows inside the door did not recede.  They breathed.

I stood without speaking, spine aligned with root, as if waiting for a breath I might share in silence.

roots taste fallen rain
limestone inhales the stormlight—
a doorway exhales

The exposure was slow, but time was already altered.  Later, I would guide the negative back into form, each hand-toned contour a return to the hush that held me.  What emerged was not the image of a ruin, but the exhale of something that remains alive.


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