Heat clings to the pane while a brittle hush thickens the air, every surface steeped in the orange churn from outside. The bed tells of flight — covers twisted, impression fading, as if someone rose in a trembling rush. On the dresser the question seared into wood, Where Vojta?, stares back more like a vow than a plea. Who carved it under that jaundiced glow, and what did they hope would answer? A radio’s chalky light hurls shadows upward, doubling the lamp into a graphite cruciform across the peeling wall. Something happened already, or is still happening just off-frame — the thermal weight of it hums in the grain of each board, in the softness of each pillow left unguarded. If Vojta was here, why does the room radiate not rest, but waiting? He remains unaccounted for, summoned in silence, the name pressed deeper than the wood itself.