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“The wind does not speak. It remembers.”
— Khmer monastic proverb

Before the sky stirred—before the towers took shape from shadow—there was only breath. The kind that belongs to stone after rain.

I walked without a torch, guided by the glisten of wet pathways, the scent of bark and moss, and the far-off hush of water falling from hidden ledges. The courtyard opened like a held exhale. No one had come. The world was blue-grey and veiled.

And then—without sound—a bird rose.

Its wings passed through the morning not as interruption, but as offering. Something in its arc over the steps felt inevitable, remembered. I stood still. The camera rested in my hands. The image was not taken. It arrived.

In my studio, I would return to that hour. I would coax the memory into form—layer by layer—toning the shadows by hand until the hush I had felt began to breathe again through silver and paper.

stone breathes in the rain—
a wing stirs what cannot speak,
the sky bows to stone


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