Iridescent Rooftrace

Breezes flick through the canvas shades, stirring rainbow shivers that slide over the planters like a coded signal only our small circle still recognizes. I drift along the narrow walkway, feeling the metal’s warm pulse under my soles and hearing Kornelia behind me, insisting we check the irrigation drums again. She favors the analytic path, counting droplets, tracing hoses; I chase intuition, following the origami crane left in the lettuce as if it carries Vojta’s breath folded inside each crease. Between us, the rooftop slows to a gentle whirl, a ritual looping back to the day he vanished among these towers. Sunlit vines claw upward in their endless spiral, echoing our own repeated passes through this green refuge. Even the distant turbines rotate in steady cycles, reminding me how the city keeps turning whether we find him or not. I press my palm to the drum’s cool flank, right where the taped sign murmurs its question. The moment feels intimate, almost celebratory in its fragile hope, yet the center of our search stays hollow. Vojta remains unseen, still pulled away from us.