Condensate Vigil

The corridor holds its breath around the pipes, moisture beading like secrets that refuse to fall. I keep watch here because someone had to, because the fans still hum and the red indicator glows as if reporting to an unseen desk. Steam hangs frozen mid-gust, caught by the lens, and the coils of cable rest like obedient snakes, their gloves laid down gently, almost apologetic. On the vent, the question stares back—Where Vojta?—not as graffiti but as a confession pressed into dust. This chamber reads like a file left open. The ventilation suggests listening, the timestamp a quiet alibi, the glass tanks whispering of circulation and control. Trust cracked somewhere between maintenance and message; someone knew where to write it and when. I guard the room and its warmth, protective of the machines that never speak, wondering who last sealed the door and why the alarm still breathes. Did Vojta pass through this steam, or does it rise only to remember him? The search continues, unanswered, his absence still active.