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The gate holds warmth, though the sun has gone. I have been here before, but never like this. There is a flame I cannot see, only feel—in the stone, in her lifted hand, in the way no vine dares cross her gaze.

She is not asking. She is not waiting. She is simply there, carrying something older than light.

I press the shutter as the fire fades. What remains is not loss, but offering.

the carved hand offers
what the sun could not withhold—
ember without end


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