Constellation in Waiting

The blueprint hums like a secret under glass, its white tracings looping in circles that refuse to close. Someone scratched the question where walls cannot exist—"Where Vojta?"—and each letter leans forward as if listening. Their lines feel urgent, pressed too hard, trembling slightly, as if the hand knew time would shrink to a blade. The paper itself shelters motion: faint blurs among the stars read like half-remembered steps, as though he darted past and left gravity unhinged. Count the sparks, align the streak, trace radius after radius, stop-breathe-note-repeat—still no center holds. I keep the sheet pinned and flat, my palms hovering to guard against any sudden curl, because these lines are the last fence left. Whoever marked this sky believed the design could cradle him, but the arcs only spiral deeper, and Vojta stays outside their reach, unnamed in the dark beyond their fragile geometry.