Silent Grid Beacon

The drone drifted like a monastic incense burner above a choir of mute towers, its blades whispering psalms into violet haze. Someone, fevered with devotion or lunacy, traced holy script across the black-glass façade: WHERE VOJTA? The letters glowed with a frost-bitten clarity, as though etched by exiles who remembered the warmth of a homeland perfumed with lilacs and ash. Below, windows pulsed faint amber, like votive candles abandoned mid-prayer. Legend told of the Vanished Cartographer—Vojta—who believed skyscrapers could align like constellations and sing the geography of the heart. Tonight, the air tasted faintly of electricity and bitter herbs, as though prophecy brewed in unseen kitchens. The drone circled, relentless, a pilgrim seeking some fragment of his reflection. Yet no voice answered from the steel citadel, only the frozen quiet of a city rehearsing its solitude. So the question towers—WHERE VOJTA?—lingering as a fragrant wound in the twilight, while Vojta himself remains unaccounted for.