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It had rained in the night. Not heavily—just enough for the stone to exhale. The corridors of Angkor Wat were slick, and silence thickened in the air like the scent of wet lichen. I ascended slowly toward the heart of the temple, the third tier, where gods once turned inward and kings sought communion in breathless stillness.

She emerged before me—not from light, but from the absence of it. A devata, carved yet conscious, cloaked in darkness so deep it felt ancestral. Her face bore the touch of centuries. Her lotus hand rested not in display, but in repose. Her eyes held not presence, but patience.

I stood without movement. No adjustment. No lens. The moment did not need me—it was already complete.

Only when breath returned to me did I reach for the shutter. The exposure lasted minutes, but it could have been years. She did not change. I changed.

Later, in the quiet of my studio, I would coax the negative into form—chiaroscuro shaping her shadow, hand-toning her presence into warmth. But the image was never made there. It was received here.

lotus in her hand—
light hesitates on her cheek,
stone remembers breath


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