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The stones had cooled, but their warmth lingered like incense. I walked slowly, not expecting revelation, only presence. That is when the temples begin to speak.

The sanctuary opened like a held breath. The westward light had deepened into gold. And there she was: carved into the doorway, not posed, not adorned, but sovereign. The air shifted. I did not move.

In the darkroom, I tried to find the light again—not the light that fell, but the light that had entered her. I toned the image until that gold remained, even in silence.

last light of the sun
folds into the goddess' gaze
and forgets to leave


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