Flooded Watchpoint

The rumor starts mid-churn, with the wheel coughing water against its stone ribs and the cave filling with that cold mineral smell. Someone painted WHERE VOJTA? above the arch before the tide reclaimed it; the letters still breathe beneath lichen and splatter. Lanterns burn low. A small boat noses the threshold between dark and exit-glow, its rope creaking, its lone handler bent over a folded page rescued from the eddies. Ink holds, barely. The paper smells of salt and iron, like a pocket kept too long. Field note, clipped and passed hand to hand: 23:40. Tidal gate active. Ladder slick. Temporary platform unsecured. Subject not located. Document recovered, hand-script, partial cipher, margins torn. No additional voices heard. The wheel’s rhythm masks everything else. They say he used this chamber as a hinge, slipping between routes while the water spoke for him. The cave exhales, sweet with algae and lamp oil. The exit shines without answering. The search tightens its circles, and Vojta does not surface.