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Even before I saw her, the light changed. It no longer fell from the sky but rose softly from the stone, as if the sandstone itself were remembering. The western gate of Angkor Wat opened in silence. Cicadas turned their chant inward. The last warmth of the day gathered along the walls like the breath of something sacred.

And there she stood.

Crowned in fire, draped in carved adornments, offering a single blossom held as though it had always been in her hand. Not symbolic. Not ornamental. A gesture as real as breath. I lowered the tripod with care. Each movement slowed by reverence, not decision. She did not ask to be captured—only received.

Her stillness carried a heat that was not temperature, but memory.

Weeks later, I shaped the print slowly, the way one shapes smoke. I listened as I worked. The chiaroscuro emerged gently. The gold I added with a brush as fine as whispering. It was not toning. It was return.

She did not shimmer. She remembered.

she does not shimmer—
she waits where the sun once stood,
gold beneath her skin


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