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The silence came first—wet stone, breath suspended. I stepped softly through the Hall of Dancers, where columns lean like trees, and doorways open not just through walls, but through memory.

The apsaras above each lintel had not moved in centuries, yet they felt alert. Not frozen—alive in a way stone sometimes is, when weather and reverence have passed through it long enough. One seemed to lean slightly toward the light, as if she remembered something just beyond articulation.

I set the exposure slowly. It was not an act of technique—it was an offering of patience. The film would receive what I could not name.


And then, it happened.
The glint of spirit not as flash,
but as return.

I watched the light walk
into the room
as if it had done so
every morning
for centuries.

Not one dancer moved—
yet something
leaned forward.

A wall cracked,
a column leaned—
but the breath still came back
exactly
where it left.

One stupa waited
at the end of the corridor,
not asking to be seen—
only to be felt.


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