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There is a stillness that arrives just before light becomes real. It is not the silence of absence, but of deep readiness. On that morning, I stood beside the guardian whose form had already begun to dissolve. His surface bore no resistance to time. What remained was inward.

His lean was not collapse. It was communion. His arms, though softened by centuries of rain, still curled around the serpent Vasuki with patient grace—a posture neither theatrical nor fragile, but simply enduring.

The shutter fell like a sigh.

Stillness holds the gate—
Deva leaning into breath,
light without a name.


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