She still sits among the stones that once were a temple. Not made of the same stuff as others, but of the first moment beauty was given a name. White fabric falls from her and runs across the cold rock, as if she has only just risen from the sea and the water has not yet left her skin. Her hair hides her face—not from shame, but because not every eye has the right to look at her. Time has worn the stones. It has not worn her. She is the same Venus who stayed when every temple fell. Not as something left behind, but as the reason anything is still worth staying for.