Chalk Oath Procession

The stones still glisten from an early rain, as if the street itself breathes and mourns. In the hush between metal boots striking and a lone gull cutting arcs, someone knelt here at first light and pressed color into the gray—letters bright with longing, hearts curled like incense smoke. Children, perhaps, moved in small ceremony, scratching stick figures beside a golden lion, binding vow to pavement before soldiers claimed the day. The market hum drifts back, veiled by murmurs of a kingdom on edge. Every armored stride feels kinetic, yet no one looks down; the plea remains underfoot, trembling against the cobblestones: WHERE VOJTA? It lingers like prophecy, like a question the air cannot dissolve. Whoever wrote it believed reunion could bloom even within barricades—but the silhouette they summon is still not here.