Whispering Root Oath

They say the forest hums louder when promises fracture. Tonight, the roots glowed faintly with their ancient heat, curling like veins beneath an age-old vow carved deep in the bark: *WHERE VOJTA?* No wind stirred, yet the branches bent as though listening for an answer, their limbs draped with red, almost living cords. Local legend claims the tree marks a pact—whoever inscribed it tethered hope to wood, believing a name could anchor a wandering soul. Somewhere between prayer and circuitry, the figure stood: sleek, deliberate, a sentinel not born of bone yet charged with fidelity. Its twin eyes fixed on the scarred surface, absorbing stories of absence that stretched beyond centuries. A stag lingered in the haze behind, breath fogging the cooled air like incense. In the shimmered hush, faith and algorithm twined—both yearning for one trace of Vojta. The grove offered riddles, not leads, and the quest, though burning bright within that metallic watcher, remains unfulfilled.