Threads of Question

The loom hums with an energy that feels older than timber, older than dust. Bands of faded blue hang against walls like silent witnesses, their symbols pulsing faintly in the half-light, as though they breathe secrets back into the room. A radio loiters on the frame, its antenna pointing skyward like an unanswered prayer; its last note must still linger in the hush, because the air tastes of static. One shuttle rests like a fallen compass, stranded mid-voyage across stretched threads that now spell a challenge: *Where Vojta?* No figure moves, yet presence clings to the fibers, urging fingers that never arrive. Someone, in some tense hour, must have bent close and whispered, “Leave the pattern—say his name.” That plea remains woven here while shadows lengthen at the roof beams, violet light teasing through the slats. We’ve searched the corners and read every sign in the weave, but still the absence beats louder. Vojta’s place is empty, and the fabric waits for him.