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Before the first light touched the temple stones, I found her. Not by intention. By grace. The corridor opened like a held breath, and there she was—carved, yes, but softened by centuries, her presence no less real for being stone.

She did not shimmer. She did not call. She waited.

I placed the camera down. It would be minutes before I exposed the film, and more hours shaping the image by hand. But already she had imprinted herself—not on film, but on memory. The photograph was not made. It was received.

her crown holds the dark—
a lotus unopened still
knows the sun will come


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