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The moment unfolded without movement. Not in the windless trees beyond the gallery, nor in the figures themselves, carved in stone centuries ago. But the light—that changed everything. It came as if it had returned, not from the sky, but from the very memory of the stone.

The scene before me was quiet: a princess seated, women in procession, the bearers behind her rooted in reverent pause. I watched not for what they did, but for how they waited. That was the threshold.

I let the camera wait with me. The film would hold the hush, the shape of grace. I exposed it slowly, and later, at home, shaped the light back into the image—allowing it to reappear, not as evidence, but as remembrance.


They do not move,
but they are not still—
the silence between them
holds the offering
like water holds breath.

The gift is unseen.
The sun lowers itself
as if to listen
to what has
already been accepted.

In that hush,
even the stone
feels warm
with a memory
not its own.


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