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The roof was open to the sky—just enough to let the breath of dawn slip between fractured balusters and trace the dust-soft floor.  I stood in the hush that holds before sound, before the temple stirs.  Columns leaned like memories.  And there, carved into shadow, she waited.

She held a lotus.  Not aloft.  Not posed.  Simply present.  The tilt of her hips, the downward gaze, the silence carved into the curve of her shoulders—all spoke of listening, not display.  I felt myself vanish—not out of absence, but out of reverence.  It was not she who emerged.  It was the light, remembering how to return.

I let the film open slowly.  Not to capture, but to receive.  Later, in the darkroom, I shaped what had shaped me.  Layer by layer, I coaxed the hush to the surface, as if drawing out a memory without disturbing it.

 

lotus in her hand—
cool dawn slips through columns
blessing what endures


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