Rainlit Ledger

Storm shivers through the balcony again as I lean over the lamp’s mild glow, tracing the cracked urn where someone etched that urgent question—Where Vojta?—long before I found this place. Pages ripple, droplets skip, a pale moth clings to an open chapter like it’s guarding a confession I once refused to voice. The city hums below, neon drowned but not extinguished, every diode blinking like a heartbeat I once ignored and now court for forgiveness. I steady my breath, sift ink bottles, reposition scrolls, then race through possibilities—cross-checking signals, replaying fragments, recalculating routes—until the list staccatos into silence. The wind chime clicks a soft countdown, urging motion, urging repair. And still, despite this small sanctuary of study and apology, Vojta slips the horizon again, his trail dissolving into the rain-soaked night.