Neon Hour Linger

Rain flung silver chords against the pavement as if tuning some forgotten instrument, and the cat listened—still, jet as spilled ink—beneath the flare of vermilion letters. That glowing query, *Where Vojta?*, pulsed like a heartbeat learned by a city that doubts its own pulse. Every drip translated into the taste of rust and distant citrus, looping in my mind until the alley itself felt like a spiral staircase laid flat and wet. What drew him here first—steam curling from noodles, or some sweeter promise hidden behind shutters? The sign insists on rendezvous, but which door belongs to the truth, and which to another cycle of waiting? Shadows repeat themselves; red light doubles in the puddles, stammering vowels of desire against black water. I searched the curve of every reflection, hoping for his outline braided into the neon hum, yet I find only absence humming louder than rain. So, the question widens, widening still: if not tonight, where bends his path now, and why does the answer taste like smoke and copper? Vojta remains unfound.