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Evening gathered slowly. The courtyard was not empty, though no one stood there. The stone breathed. I felt it.

Two devatas faced outward, yet their attention seemed elsewhere—on each other, perhaps, or on something they shared. A story. A sound. A silence.

They were carved in joy, not for display but for remembrance. Their flowers, their lips, their mirrored tilt—all suggested something recent, though centuries old. I placed the tripod without sound. In the stillness, the film received not just light, but laughter held in stone.

lotus on her arm—
a silence full of laughter
carried in the stone


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