Silent Marker Ritual

Entry 74: The lake held its breath as I approached, steam rising faint and slow above the shallows. The stones along the bank, blackened by damp heat and time, felt older than the ruin of our maps. And there—rooted like a sentinel from some other age—stood the carved stump: eye hollowed into its heart, pinecones crowning and cradled as if to mimic a cycle none of us can stop. The words gouged deep, WHERE VOJTA?, seemed less a question now than an omen. I traced them with gloved fingers and felt the chill of the groove, as though it swallowed warmth from my skin. I have seen such markers before, though never two alike. They rise where the faithful passed, or fell. Patterns repeat; seasons bend back toward themselves. If he marked this place, it was not in haste. He wanted us to follow—or to turn back. Either way, the water whispered no answer. Vojta’s trail runs colder with each ring I count in dead wood.