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The sanctuary breathed as stone does—slowly, and without asking. The Buddha sat beneath the naga’s hood, quiet and streaked with age. He was not framed by grandeur, but by presence. Even the droppings on his shoulders seemed consecrated by time.

The coils above him had long since shed their myth. They were not symbols anymore. They were shelter made still.

I waited for my breath to match the scene. Not to compose—only to receive.

The shutter whispered once.
The moment did not.

shadow softens stone
the stillness beneath the hood
outlasts every storm


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