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“Light does not arrive—it remembers.”

The hush before dawn lay over Ta Prohm like fine dust.  A single breath of wind traced the pillars, carrying the scent of damp stone and root.  Pillars rose like monks in meditation—still, worn, attentive to silence.  I waited, body stilled, as though the corridor itself were inhaling.

stone exhales a hush
pillars lean toward waking light
shadow keeps the hymn

The first silver drift of morning slipped across the floor, revealing more stillness than form.  I pressed the shutter exactly once, unsure whether I had captured the corridor or merely the pause that held it.  In the darkroom days later, tone by tone, the memory breathed again.

When the print emerged, it did not speak of architecture.  It spoke of presence—of a light that returns only to those who wait without asking.


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