Storm Scripted Plea

Balloons strain at their cords like anxious messengers, drifting through a sky that swirls with burning ochre and cobalt scars. Above them, the great face-shaped vortex tightens, grim and patient, as if listening to a question carved in lightning: WHERE VOJTA? The letters crackle with a desperate rhythm, each flash a drumbeat against eternity. No one writes such words lightly in the ceiling of storms. “They said the signal would reach him,” murmurs a voice lost among the currents, yet the storm gives no reply, only eyes like caverns, old as thunder. Time shortens with every flickering bolt, and the watchers know the tethered balloons are not decoration—they are escape routes, airbound threads toward the unbroken horizon. Still, the vortex keeps its secret, pulling at them with ancient breath. Vojta does not answer, and the sky’s mouth will not close until the question is paid in full.