Floraled Transit Beacon

We hung a hand-painted question on the carriage after the long nights of rationing and repairs, a banner that reads Where Vojta? in looping gold across a floral panel. The pod hums on steel like a tired animal and the smell of oil and blossom rides the wind while ghost-green domes drift above the terraces. The speaker's voice is hoarse from calling; fingerprints fog the glass and he is still not here, which keeps the search alive and absurdly hopeful at once. From the cab the gardens tumble away in neat, cascading beds, trees the color of sunset arranged like trophies for a city that rebuilt on levitating soil. Solar panels glitter and platforms sweep past in simultaneous motion, petals and paint streaking as the car glides; every painted bee and flower became a signal in case Vojta sees color again. The narrator fingers the banner and feels triumphant and battle-worn at the same time, trusting small bright signs more than certainty.