Pearls Before Depth

Mid-descent, the circle closes: a living window of coral ribs frames a congregation of finned bodies, each holding a sphere that catches the faintest midnight light. The water glows blue-green, dusted with plankton like stars, and the creatures hover with calm posture even as their gills flick fast, urgent, measuring currents. I pause the ascent timer to study them, historian first, diver second. The pearls—or bubbles, or held breaths—refract memory; their skins mirror me back, warped and patient. Earlier, on a different night, we traced Vojta’s last signal to this reef edge, where biology bends rules and pressure teaches silence. That recollection tightens now. The circle reads like a threshold: inside, order and ritual; outside, the drift that swallowed a person. The animals release nothing; they guard nothing; yet everything here implies keeping. Light falls in a shaft, serene and marvelous, while my notes scatter in the mind, frantic to reconcile wonder with loss. The depth remains open, and Vojta remains unfound.