Hollow Current Chamber

The straps drift like a relic unfastened from time, spinning slowly in the green hush. Everything here hums without sound—mushrooms glow as though tasting the cold, feeding color to shadows that smell faintly of rusted brine. Above, a single phrase claws through the frost-webbed glass: *Where Vojta?* The lettering feels alive, like lichen breathing questions into the dim water. Children in old stories whispered a warning: anyone who loosened their harness before the bell echoed deep would wander forever, eyes open to the salt silence. I cannot name the hour, only that a tremor of bubbles climbs like startled birds, then vanishes. The harness rocks on invisible tides, an empty spine waiting for breath. No footprints, no pulse—only that silent query scratched against the dome. Vojta has slipped past our reach, and the chamber holds its answer in a voice we cannot hear.