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Some light does not fall. It returns.

At the western gate, I stood inside that light. It rose from the stone, gentle and deliberate, brushing the edges of every carved fold. Her figure held it, not passively, but knowingly—as if she had once been made of flame, and now remembered its touch.

She stood in silence, a hand lifted with offering. I composed without hurry. Not to take, but to witness. The shutter closed like breath. And what remained was not a photograph, but an echo.

In the studio, the gold returned softly. I did not apply it—I allowed it to emerge. The light that once crowned her was still there, beneath the surface, waiting.

her hand holds silence—
a blossom the sun once knew
returns in gold light


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