Silent Grove Ledger

Branches whisper as I press the book against the stump, shielding its pages from the damp breath crawling between the trees. Someone opened it in haste—ink still bruises the fibers, and circles, harsh and uneven, close around the plea: *Where Vojta?* The question feels less written than carved, as if to trap an echo before it fled. Light slants weakly through the canopy, brushing the fern-pressed leaf and that ominous wheel of runes. Each mark hums of calculation, an orbit spiraling inward, always inward. Whoever left this did not linger—they tore forward, perhaps following those sigils like lifelines while something else drew near. I keep one hand poised on the cover, ready to slam it shut, for even in this half-light the symbols seem to breathe. We are late, dangerously late, and Vojta is still nowhere in these woods.