Hammock Without Answer

Rain threads the clearing, a soft percussion against moss-dark trunks while the hammock rocks on its own, patterned fabric breathing as if it remembers a body. Ropes climb the trees like penitent lines, one bearing the hand-knotted question—Where Vojta?—swaying at a pilgrim’s pace. The rumor says the bell near the path rang once at dusk and then learned silence. A red raincoat waits on a bark-scarred shoulder, empty as a chapel after prayer, its hem darkened by weather. On the stone, a stove hums blue, patient, warming nothing. A folded map lies open to creases worn thin, corners pinned by a pinecone so it cannot flee, paths traced and retraced until the forest starts answering back. Someone once said, “Just ahead, beyond the wet,” and the words keep walking even now. This moment survives as evidence: camp intact, fire spared, routes remembered. The search circles the trunks and lifts its eyes; Vojta remains unaccounted for, the question still tied and tugging.