Window Vigil Notes

Hands pause mid-scratch as the room exhales winter, a pen hovering like it has heard something. The chair creaks; wool and age trade warmth, and the window sweats its pale breath while curtains hold the day at arm’s length. Ink skitters across the air in memory rather than paper, the rumor being that messages travel better when not pinned down. On the low table, a small candle jar keeps a honeyed scent, and the wood bears a quiet carving—Where Vojta?—cut with the patience of someone used to waiting. They say this was part vigil, part ledger, the posture of a pilgrim who knows every room can become a frontier if you listen. Outside, nothing dramatic happens; inside, everything happens at once. A sock loosens, a thought tightens, dust drifts like scripture. The search doesn’t advance, it deepens, and in that depth the name keeps breathing. However long the light leans, Vojta has not returned.