Tideborne Question

The sea hurled it ashore like a dare—green glass breathing salt and sunset fire. A single slip of paper stared back, blunt and unrepentant: *Where Vojta?* I swear the words hummed as the foam hissed, vowels tasting of brine and burnt orange sky. Someone wanted this found, right at the stubborn bend of twilight. Behind me, that idle red boat rocked as if shaking its head at the rules we broke. “He said he’d row back before the sun fell,” I muttered, heart pushing faster than the waves. Now every clock in the horizon feels like it’s sprinting. The scent of driftwood tangles with memory; shadows lengthen, shapes shifting into warnings. Whoever Vojta was an hour ago, he’s someone else by now. The bottle only confirms what the tide keeps whispering: he’s still gone, and the search is mercilessly alive.