Twilight Divide

Smoke curls like bruised breath between the twin towers, one gnawing the dim blue of night, the other swallowing an ember sun. I stood where fields break into squares of muted green and ash, hearing silence turn metallic, tasting dust that hummed like distant bells. The border wasn’t drawn; it bled, dragging us sideways through split hours, a sky full of birds stitching frantic loops overhead. I remember running—dropping satchels, counting windows, scouring the spire shadows, breathing in scorched sweetness from cider cellars now hollow. It felt like time unbuttoned itself, day retreating into dusk while night advanced in tatters. We read the single question etched into the ornate frame—*Where Vojta?*—and all the warmth of the valley shrank behind those words. He slipped before either sun could settle; no one has seen where the halves of him fell.