Whispers over Hanoi

Pinned between the wicker lines, that map glowed faintly as though it remembered moonlight soaking the Red River’s skin. The paper bent at the corners, soft and tired, yet its bridges arched like iron prayers that never break. I traced them with the tip of my nail, hoping a hidden road curled toward Vojta’s steps. The tea sat cooling, a jade pool with no ripples, keeping every secret it caught. They had left the theater stub like an offering, violet ink murmuring *Where Vojta?* alongside a toy fan tangled in orange thread. Each piece felt deliberate, as if someone arranged a shrine when dusk leaned close and the world held its breath. I thought of a child’s hush before lanterns flare, the way silence deepens into something holy. What troubles me still: the rails curve away like a promise broken slowly, and in all that mapped green and red, his name does not return my gaze.