Spines in Disguise

He’d perched there, an improbable fusion of earth and cautious breath, each quill glinting with secret urgency. Someone carved a warning into the rim—WHERE VOJTA?—as though this vessel were the last checkpoint before the trail slips cold. Look at the flowers near his ear: tiny white bursts like whispered codes, hints carried on still air. Who pinned them, and from which direction did they retreat? The creature’s posture hums with alert intention: claws ready, eyes open wide enough to drink the dark. Did he crawl inward to shield a clue, or outward to lure pursuit off course? Every thorn promises both defense and confession, yet the silence bites harder than any spike. We circle back through imagined steps, rewinding pawprints that may never exist outside our wishes. So we wait, vigilant and tender, knowing the question etched in clay remains: Vojta is not here—at least, not yet.