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The air changed before the light did.

The sun, low and thick with memory, moved across the jungle canopy as though remembering its way. I had passed the western gate of Angkor Wat many times, but that evening, something opened. The sandstone ignited—not with flame, but with reverence. There was no announcement. Just a deepening. A stillness within stillness.

She was already standing there.

Not emerging. Not revealed. Present. Her aureole flared like a forgotten flame, her hand lifted in a gesture that felt neither fixed nor in motion—something between invocation and memory. She had not been carved. She had been kept. And in that moment, offered.

I moved with the slowness such presences require. The tripod legs pressed gently into the earth. I adjusted the camera as one bows. When I exposed the film, I did so not to capture, but to kneel.

I did not ask her to stay. I shaped the image later with long hours of silence and shadow, coaxing her from silver into gold, until she glowed again—not on the paper, but within it.

light rose from the stone—
her hand caught the last silence
before the sun knelt


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