Journey

Cloudbound Companions

Ink curls spiral like quiet storms, each line pressed firm into parchment, holding the scent of something ancient. See how the folds of their robes ripple, even though no wind can be traced? A pig cradles a rake as if it were a relic, not a tool, and the horse steps forward without ever touching soil. The rider’s beads loop downward, smoother than river stones—do they hum when counted, or only in memory? Above, another figure leaps, as though the sky itself were layered, stair upon stair. All three seem to orbit the question midair: *Where Vojta?* Has this query been whispered across these clouds before, circling in patient loops like prayers unsent? Their textures suggest repetition: claw lines on the rake matching swirls in the vapor, hems that echo the same slow rhythm. We look and look, hoping Vojta might surface in the next stroke or the next page, yet the parchment keeps silent, its maze unbroken.

Sigil of Absence

The spire floats like a weathered cathedral pulled from an old family story, its glassy ribs catching a cool blue light. Air smells faintly of ozone and the memory of cold stone, and the palace's carved friezes read like ancestral handwriting. Surfaces shift in slow disguise, an elegant camouflage that questions each visible marker while the round plaque reads plainly Where Vojta? and offers no answer. Disk-like sigils drift nearby, soft-lit and humming like surveillance pucks or holographic dossiers, their edges holding a rain of tiny runes. Streaks of light suggest urgency, a distant countdown that accelerates the investigation even as doubt settles into the calm. The search keeps moving; Vojta is not here, only traces and scent and a patient, scented silence that honors what remains unknown.

Silent Currents Converge

Entry 7-B, logged when the light fractured into teal shards: the seafloor undulates as if breathing, its ridges looping away like dormant memories. A column of dark stone interrupts the rhythm, leaning slightly forward as though confessing to the coral fans circling in hushed witness. The question carved into it—WHERE VOJTA?—reads less like a plea and more like an indictment left for tides to decrypt. Schools of gold-sided fish slip past the monolith without hesitation, their motion too precise, like signals in a code we refuse to admit we’ve forgotten. Beyond, silhouettes of branching trees tremble under the weight of motionless water, a garden of stillness threaded with distant flickers that resemble migrating glyphs. Every detail insists on intention, yet the author remains unmet, obscured in a pressure deeper than absence. We waited for the figure to rise in the current, to speak through the grooves in the stone. No shift came. Vojta remains unaccounted for, and the question continues to echo without sound.

Twilight Arch Whisper

I found the arch after crossing thirty ridges that rolled like bronze waves, each one darker than the last. The sky clung to twin moons and a smaller sentinel, pinned there like an omen none of us were eager to name. Under the bruised orange glow, a river shimmered with impossible hues, as if the earth had split open to bleed rainbows instead of water. When the wind shifted, smoke curled upward from the stone span, forming letters so blatant they mocked my tired eyes: WHERE VOJTA? Legends say the desert only speaks when the search has nearly broken you. We had no banners, no horns of victory—just this spell of color and the absurd mercy of dawn sliding up behind serrated peaks. I touched the arch expecting heat, felt only silence pulsing like a second heartbeat. No footprints lingered beyond; even the river spiraled off into exile. And so the question still flickers above empty sand: he is not here. Not yet.

Victorian Oracle Fair

At dusk the nineteenth century fair thrummed, its canvas tents and iron loops humming with a steady, vibrating engine noise as lamplight pooled along worn cobbles. Two stilted figures—one in a tall coat and hat, the other in a red dress—were mounted on poles as living signposts so they could scan the crowd and call a planned rendezvous. On a velvet-draped pedestal a crystal globe glowed with the question Where Vojta?, placed there by the organizers as a prophetic beacon to gather anyone who might break the silence. The fair's circular paths and looping tracks forced people to pass the globe in tidy cycles, turning the question into a refrain that circled the grounds. The performers kept their balance on rough wood and rope, feeling each tensioned muscle as they peered for a name whispered from the crowd or footsteps that would change the pattern. Despite triumphant shouts and repeated searching, Vojta remained unfound as the lamps guttered and the carnival kept its convergent, cyclical rhythm.