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I placed my hand on the stone—not to steady myself, but to listen.  It was cool, textured by centuries of weather and worship.  Apsaras carved across the sanctuary walls tilted in various gestures, but one stilled the morning around her.

She didn’t face me.  Her gaze rested just beyond, where memory slips into myth.  Her hand rose with the gentleness of a blessing that did not require belief.  I felt no need to be seen.  Only received.

Light moved quietly across her collarbone.  Not illumination—recognition.  I crouched low to watch it touch the edge of her braid.

When I eventually exposed the film, I knew I would spend hours drawing out what the stone already understood: shadow is not absence, but a form of grace.


The stone did not speak
but opened a space for listening—
and something entered.

She does not move.
She does not need to.

Each braid is a prayer
coiled in time.

The hand she raises
is not a gesture
but a threshold.

Stand before her
and forget what you thought
was yours to hold.


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