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The sun was low when I found the gallery again. I had walked this corridor many times before, but never in this light. The sandstone was warm, as if it held fire just beneath the skin.

The carving caught me. Not with grandeur, but with stillness. The kneeling attendants, the open palms, the quiet exchange of presence. And above it all, a golden hush.

I didn’t think. I didn’t move. I let the moment settle, and when it did, I exposed one slow frame. I remember not the sound of the shutter, but the silence that remained.

Somewhere, the gods turned. And the stone remembered how to glow.

Warm hands in the stone—
sunlight listens as it leaves,
stillness holds the gate.


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Where light lingers, time kneels. The world waits to be seen — not taken, but received.
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In the hush of the galleries, the sculptor listens rather than strikes.
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