Echoing Clock Towers

In the wan green dusk of a ruined Victorian square two great clock towers lean like tired sentries, their faces frozen and their stone bodies braided with moss and black tendrils. A broken monument slants in the foreground with a deliberate question carved into its face: WHERE VOJTA?, the letters still clear against the green. The air tastes of cold iron and wet lichen, and the silence is the sound of time folding in on itself. A slow, careful search once threaded these avenues—lanterns would have passed under arches and hands brushed the climbing vines—each repeated step echoing between the twin towers as if history were copying itself. The dark tendrils move at the edge of sight and the moment blurs when they begin to curl, stealing the trail that searchers had trusted. The inscription remains the only steady signal; Vojta is still not found.