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There is a kind of turning that happens only once. And yet, this one has lasted centuries. Her body curved within the stone—joy not as display, but as remembrance. The wall held the moment as the jungle softened into gold. I did not feel I had arrived; I felt I had been called.

When the film unspooled in my hands weeks later, her light still echoed. I toned the print until the gold spoke again, until her smile rose into warmth—not surface light, but something deeper. The warmth of gesture. Of breath. Of a step never completed, but never abandoned.

in the fading light
she lifts her hand to begin—
dusk holds her steady


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