“You move,” Abby replied, lowering the camera. “Slowly. Deliberately. Like the stone is arguing with you and you’re determined to win.”

“No,” Maya said. “It’s how I see you. Waiting to be uncovered.”

One night, Maya took Abby’s hand and led her to the studio. Under a single bare bulb sat a new piece—a figure emerging from rough-hewn basalt, arms outstretched, face smooth and unfinished.

Abby didn’t speak. She raised her camera and took a single frame—not of the sculpture, but of Maya standing beside it, her shadow long and tender against the wall.