Signal in the Roots

The tunnel hums like a tired confession, its tiles sweating under the static glow. That black silhouette—if you can even call it that—sprawls across the wall in hungry threads, as though shadow finally grew teeth and decided to savor plaster. Its eyes glitter like coins at the bottom of a drained fountain, promising wishes no one should cash. Overhead, the sign makes its plea in perfect capitals: WHERE VOJTA? It flickers like a priest with a bad alibi. Someone fed this place something precious. Maybe a name, maybe a man. Maybe Vojta volunteered, thinking the roots would forgive him. Funny, how silence spreads faster than timetables down here. A camera watches, red-lensed and complicit, but gives nothing away. So we’re left wondering—not if he’s gone, but which dark corridor finished the meal. The question still hangs like that sign, electric and aching: Where, indeed, is Vojta?