Signal Under Rain

[Entry 14—still moving] The coach hummed like a bloodstream as droplets braided neon into whispers on the glass. That message—those syllables breathing crimson and cyan—pulsed against the window so bright it tasted of copper and citrus on my tongue. Each letter dripped its urgency into the aisle, pooling where shoes didn’t shift. They sat with their tiny suns glowing in their palms, heads bent, swaying gently. None of them looked outward. None saw the question roaring silently through rain. I pressed my notes deeper into my coat; even the texture of the paper felt watched, as though pupils floated just beyond the reflection. This space felt ceremonial, a stalled procession for someone who should have boarded, yet left no shadow behind. Static filled the air like incense. We keep searching every corridor and moving room, but Vojta remains an absence threaded through the lights—bright, ungraspable, and still unfound.