Green Veil Inquiry
They said the roof sighed when the sun slid off its back, but this—this green hush curling above was louder than any rumor. Someone had chalked those twisting letters across the turf-clad wall, carving a question into the night while steam wound up like a guilty thought. The air even tasted braided—mint and iron, sweet and stern—and the aurora flickered like stammered apologies overhead.
Two stories wrestle here. One insists Vojta left gifts in the hollow, a mended clasp, a note unsent, debt folded neat as cloth. The other claims he fled before the first light spilled, chasing warmth beyond hiss and moss. This hut holds both tales like breath it cannot quite release. And so the glow dances, whispering softer each hour: where, where—where Vojta? No one answers. Not yet.
