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.
