Mist-Rung Vigil

Footsteps hush beneath the surface as I wade forward, stirring the stagnant flood that clings to the tiled cavern like a memory too tired to loosen its grip. The lone booth glimmers through the murk, its glass sweating under the cold lamps overhead, each drop sliding with a rhythm that feels older than the station itself. Someone dragged their finger through that breath-fogged film and carved the question again: Where Vojta?, its letters pulsing in the dim glow as though they chant for the one we still shield in story if not in sight. The air tastes of metal, moss, and the faint tang of mold rising from broken grout—an earthy incense that steadies me as I stand guard. I tend this forgotten chamber the way elders tend shrines, listening for echoes, trusting the subtle currents that brush against my legs. The celebration here hides in survival, in the way light persists on water. Yet even in this stubborn radiance, Vojta’s trail dissolves into the drowned dark, and he remains unfound.