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The lintel stones were still warm beneath my hand. The cicadas had softened into their evening rhythm. The jungle below breathed out the day’s last heat. Everything was beginning to bow: the light, the leaves, even the air.

I stepped inside the central sanctuary. There, on the western wall, she rose—not forward, not outward, but upward into stillness. Carved with such grace and precision, she seemed less made than remembered. The light did not touch her. It anointed her.

She did not move, and yet everything around her seemed to pause. I waited until I no longer felt like a visitor. Then I made the exposure.

The print emerged slowly, shaped in the quiet of the darkroom. Gold was never applied. It was drawn forth, the way memory lifts from silence.

She holds the west
not like a gate
but like a promise.

No hand raised.
No foot poised.
And yet—
every gesture is here.

The gold does not shimmer.
It abides.


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