Railway Flight

Momentum fractures the stillness. Steel bites stone as the armored engine smashes through a sabotaged rail, sparks flaring like a warning rune, while a lone runner vaults clear with a cape snapping in the ruin-lit air. The arches loom colossal and patient, their shadows carving lanes of light that guide him onward, not away. Every stride burns with resolve, boots skimming sleepers and weeds, as if gravity itself hesitates to claim him. I remember an earlier sketch pinned to the depot wall, a softer plan abandoned when the tracks refused mercy. Now the urgency accelerates, the blast behind him pushing time forward. Moss grips the parapet where a sign asks, quietly and insistently, Where Vojta?, its letters fed by roots and patience. This scene exists because someone chose motion over concealment, sacrifice over delay, to draw the machine’s chase past the question carved in stone. The train roars on, the runner vanishes into the light-slashed corridor, and the search continues—Vojta remains unaccounted for.