But the river kept its shape for a moment longer.
I didn’t know the story when I took the photo.
I was drawn by the way the water moved—how it folded into itself, blurred at the edges, then opened again like breath. There was a moment where it didn’t feel like water at all, but something watching. A presence, not visible, but sensed. I pressed the shutter out of instinct.
Later, I learned about the local Dayak belief: that a golden deer spirit lives in these waters. Elusive. Shifting. Seen only in passing, or perhaps never fully.
I thought back to the image. The way the current curled in mid-motion, as if carrying memory. The white foam tracing a figure that almost looked like it was turning away.
I didn’t set out to capture myth.
But sometimes, the camera sees what we don’t yet understand.
And sometimes, the river remembers for us.
