Deep in the Cambodian countryside, swallowed by jungle and silence, the last wooden temples still stand. Their lacquered columns hold the memory of another time — a time before concrete, before money, before the slow erasure that comes dressed as progress. Inside, children wear saffron robes. They arrived small, sent by families for whom poverty made the choice. They learn the laws before they learn to play. They grow up inside devotion, inside discipline, inside something ancient that the world outside is quietly forgetting. Their robes burn orange against the deep green of the forest — small
