Sunken Corridor

The engines hum low, not as a roar but a held breath, and two small craft shoulder through what used to be a street. Their lights carve cones in the green-blue haze, catching flakes that never quite settle. Buildings lean inward, ribs exposed, windows punched out, their faces stitched by glowing cables like relic veins. Seaweed clutches the concrete with the stubbornness of pilgrims gripping rosaries, refusing to let go. The pilots keep level, bodies braced against invisible currents, wrists steady on controls as if posture alone could keep history from closing in. On the right, the question survives where names do not. WHERE VOJTA? sprayed into sediment, letters softened, accusing even underwater. No crowd answers. Only jellyfish drift past like punctuation marks, and a collapsed car rests nose-down in silt, still mid-commute. A proverb surfaces here among divers: the sea remembers what the city forgets. Searchlights linger, then move on. The corridor swallows the sound again. Vojta does not surface; the inquiry sinks with him, unresolved.