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It touched her wrist—not like sunlight, not like blessing, but like memory. As if the flame remembered where it once belonged.

The sandstone was still warm beneath my feet. The cicadas had quieted, or perhaps I no longer heard them. Even the trees seemed to watch. The air shimmered, not with heat, but with attention.

I looked up at her—surrounded by carved flames, crowned and adorned, her foot lifted in eternal rhythm. But she was not dancing. That had already passed. This was the afterglow, the moment where gesture becomes vow.

I waited longer than I usually do. There was no reason—except that silence asked me to.

Then came the shutter. No sound. Only the feeling of something being received.


She was not carved
to be seen.
She was carved
to be remembered.

Each flame-shaped leaf
in her aureole
holds a breath
that never left
the stone.

Light did not find her.
It returned
to her.


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