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The air was holding its breath.

At the western gate of Angkor Wat, the last gold of day lingered without urgency, pooling at the edge of stone. Above me, high in the façade, she stood—unmoved, unbroken. A devata not defined by gesture or adornment, but by presence. Not watching. Not waiting. Simply there.

She received nothing. It was she who gave. Her silence was the kind that outlives centuries. Her gaze did not invite—it endured.

I placed the tripod slowly, knowing I would not take this image. I would wait for it to arrive.

What the lens received that evening was not light, but memory. What passed through the film was not exposure, but recognition. In the studio, I did not tone for effect. I offered gold as one offers breath—to return what had once touched her face.

Each impression I finish carries the hush of that hour. No two are alike, and yet each one remembers the same silence.

stone warmed by the dusk—
a light no longer visible
lives behind the gaze


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