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Mist drifted above the galleries, not lifting but curling—like a hand turning a page of silence. I had wandered higher than usual, drawn not by design but by instinct. The air changed as I climbed. I slowed without meaning to.

She was there.

At first, just a shape—crown against stone, one hand curved inward, a lotus folded like a whisper. Then, slowly, she became form. The closer I looked, the quieter I felt. She wasn’t hidden. She was simply waiting.

I did not reach for the camera. I stood there, still. The hush became something sacred, not empty. Eventually, I exposed the film. Much later, I would shape the light into form. But what stayed with me was this: she never emerged. She was always there.


She does not
emerge—

she waits
until the air itself
is still enough
to hold her.

What is divine
does not declare—
it presides.

Her silence
was the first form
of light.


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