Ash and Echoes

The kettle mutters over the embers, its matte surface etched with that same aching question: *Where Vojta?* Dawn slides in sideways, clinging to the edges of metal and fur, feeding the haze that curls like a half-kept secret. I watch spoons drift and sausages hover as if gravity surrendered at the insistence of hunger—small rebellions in the forest gloom. A dog lingers, ears tilting; beside it, a creature with owl-wide eyes clutches its share like victory follows scent. Behind them, the tent breathes out yesterday’s fatigue, and the cloaked silhouette stands sentinel, mute as midnight’s last vow. Steam blooms from the skillet, fragrant enough to draw ghosts—savory grounding amid strange weightlessness. Did Vojta taste this fire’s warmth before vanishing, or did he climb some unseen ladder toward another horizon? Threads unravel at once: steps to sustenance, steps to myth. I scan the clearing for answers, but only shadows answer back. Vojta is not here—and maybe never was, except in the question still seared into iron.