Silent Meridian Divide

The city hums in two tempos—night’s hush lingering on one cheek, day’s fire pressing on the other. I feel the split like a slow blade, severing what we once called ordinary. The tram drifts forward, rails whispering an uncertain hymn, while windows hold their breath between violet gloom and ember glare. Someone mounted that screen—all it says is WHERE VOJTA?—and its glow bites harder than the sun. I remember our last exchange, how he traced imaginary lines through the dusk and spoke of balance in halves; now those lines have conquered the skyline, drawn in glacial monumentality. The spires at my back still harbor echoes of bells, though no hands pull ropes, and out beyond the molten horizon a tower listens in mute ascent. If Vojta crossed here, he left no footprints, only this ponderous border where I keep scanning for motion. And yet, nobody stirs; only the question blazes louder, and he remains unaccounted for.