Echoes Behind Glass

The trail plays backward, like light pulling its own shadow. That neon script—WHERE VOJTA?—presses against the cliff face with a pulse too steady for coincidence. Finger grooves etch the stone near its base, shallow crescents where someone clawed for balance or truth. The lake absorbs the message and returns it, doubled yet thinner, trembling at each ripple like a broken oath. Under that swollen planet, every hue turns theatrical—pink varnish bleeding into violet dusk, peaks glazed with sifted ice. We logged traces of chemical dust on the ledge; residue suggests installation happened long after departure. "He said it would glow enough to guide me," murmured one witness, eyes fixed on the waterline. Maybe the sign lures him, maybe it accuses. Our charts loop endlessly, but no coordinates converge. Even as reflections multiply, Vojta remains elsewhere, folded just beyond our reach.