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The gate was quiet when I arrived.

The final gold of evening had softened the angles of stone. No one else stood there. No bird called. No branch moved.

And yet, she was there—already luminous.

The devata did not announce herself. Her gesture had no intention. Her presence was not a subject; it was a place. Something in me remembered her, though I had never seen her before.

When the shutter opened, it was as if she had chosen the moment. Not I.

Later, the gold was not added—it was returned. Not enhancement, but homecoming.

evening remembers—
the devata does not fade
when the sun departs


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