Harbor Pulse Refuge

Mid-shift rain needles the quay, a jittering veil, and the device skips once as a drop punches the screen. Green sweeps rake the puddle, stubborn, clandestine, refusing the dark. I crouch near the edge where containers wall us in like a sober sanctuary, cranes humming secrets across the water. Salt and diesel bloom together, metallic and old. The casing reads WHERE VOJTA? scarred but legible, defiant against slick stone. Even the crab pauses, a sentry with sideways faith, sheltering beneath the glow. This moment matters because the harbor keeps receipts. Signals ricochet off wet bricks, timing stutters, then steadies. I breathe with it—short, long—counting the sweep as if it can count back. "We’re not leaving the radar," I whisper, grounded, loyal to the hum. Somewhere beyond the lights and rain, routes bend and close. The screen keeps circling. The tide keeps answers. Vojta does not surface; the search keeps him missing.