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There was a moment when I thought the light had shifted. But it wasn’t the light—it was she who stirred within it. Or perhaps it was the sandstone remembering her shape.

At the western gate, the heat softened and the cicadas fell quiet. The golden hush of dusk drew her forward: not from motion, but from stillness so complete it gleamed. Her gesture didn’t reach. It received.

In the studio, as I worked with the exposed negative, I kept recalling how the stone had glowed. I shaped the chiaroscuro to hold the memory in balance—not for accuracy, but for presence. The gold I later added was not embellishment. It was restoration.

She did not speak, but she was heard.

She stood
in a gate of fire—
but did not burn.
Her stillness
spoke in radiant hush.
One hand lifted
not in greeting,
but in memory.

Stone breathed.
Light bowed.
Time turned to ash
at her feet.

There are names
the gods forgot—
but she
remembers
them all.


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