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The sandstone corridor held its hush. Late light fell across the carvings in broad, deliberate strokes. And there they stood—two apsaras emerging from the wall not as ornament, but as presence.

They leaned into one another as if to whisper. Their closeness was not performative. It was lived. A shoulder brushing a shoulder. A curve echoing a curve. The kind of intimacy shaped not by gesture, but by time.

One of them smiled.

The moment slowed. I watched how the gold light pooled in the quiet between their bodies. There was a fullness to the space—like breath between words, or the pause before a vow is spoken.

Later, in the studio, I would shape that gold into chiaroscuro. I would let the light re-enter them gently. But in that moment, there was only this:

They do not turn,
but something within them
leans
toward
gold.

One smile
rises
through centuries
of stillness—
a warmth never carved,
but found.

Their hips touch like wind
against stone,
and the light between them
remembers
what silence
once held.


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