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The light did not fall upon her.
It turned toward her, as if remembering a vow.

The cicadas had begun their long ascent into silence. I had climbed slowly to the upper sanctuary, where even sound softens and shadow holds its breath. The heat had lifted, but the walls still held the warmth of day, like an offering never taken.

She waited—high in the eastern wall, alone, still, untouched by time. Not waiting to be seen, but waiting to be remembered. Her gaze did not seek mine. It was turned inward, beyond names, beyond histories. And yet, in that moment, the temple knew her.

The sun was setting behind the western towers, and the fire it cast returned from stone to stone, until it reached her face—not directly, but with the hush of reverence. She did not glow. She burned gently, from within. A blaze not of light, but of recognition.

I stood in silence. Not preparing, not adjusting. Only witnessing. The camera had been set before the moment arrived. All that remained was breath.

She was not carved for memory.
She was carved to hold stillness.
And the light, in naming her, fulfilled its purpose.

evening fire rests
on a name the stone forgot
until the light spoke


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