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There was gold in the air, not from the sky, but from the memory of it—reflected, remembered, drawn through foliage and breath. I stood before her. An apsara encircled by stone leaves, lifted mid-dance. She was not still. She was listening. Listening to her own rhythm, long ago carved into trust.

I composed the image slowly. Not just with film and light, but with stillness. The shutter did not interrupt. The camera watched without demand. Later, I would shape the silence by hand—the way one tends an ember, not to claim it, but to keep it alive.

Her joy was not ephemeral. It remains.


She lifted her foot—
not to leave,
but to remain.

A turning not outward,
but inward—
a dance beneath the dance,
a light beneath the stone.

I bowed without bowing.
She spoke without words.
What was carved into dusk
still breathes.


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