City Dawn Trace

Light knifed across the quilt before I even registered the digits bleeding red on the bedside clock, and for a beat I felt time lurch sideways. The city outside shivered behind the glass, every bokeh orb suspended like startled spirits, frozen mid‑breath. I leaned in, frantic to decode the embroidered whisper stitched near her hip—Where Vojta?—its green thread twitching in my mind like a warning left by ancestors who trusted fabric more than memory. She slept curled tight, as if guarding some last clue under the folds. A book sagged open on the nightstand, its pages fanning toward the window, catching that same cold dawn glow. Earbuds dangled like abandoned intentions. I keep replaying the moment her arm shifted, a quick flick that suggested she’d reached for someone recently and found only cooling sheets. Why would he vanish before this alarm started its crimson countdown? Even in this still room, with the skyline pinned in mist, the question keeps beating: Vojta remains unaccounted for.