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The terrace held its breath long before I arrived.  A hush not of absence, but of waiting—woven into the stone itself.  Before me, two faces stood in accord.  The nearer, softened by centuries of weather and watchfulness.  The farther, bathed in dawn’s first silver breath.

Their gaze was not directed outward, but toward one another.  Or perhaps inward, toward something older than vision: a vow.  I stood quietly between them, not as observer but as offering.  My presence thinned, dissolved.

Stone dawn opening
two unmoving mouths exchange
the breath we forget

The shutter fell with the gentleness of an eyelid.  Later, in the darkroom, I would coax that breath into shadow and light.  But here, it was enough to be seen by the unseen.


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