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They did not seem made.
They seemed remembered.

At Angkor Wat’s second level, beneath the five towers, they stood—two devatas poised not in motion, but in presence. One reached across the other’s shoulder with a touch that defied time. Their lotus blossoms lifted, their crowns catching the last trace of gold before dusk dissolved.

The wall behind them was smooth. Unfinished. But their emergence was complete. I did not move. The moment required no witness—only stillness.

The shutter opened.
And the silence deepened.

stone sisters waiting—
not for the sun to return,
but for what it gave


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