Crossing Without Answer

Mid-stride, the street forgets itself. Shoes hush against wet stone, leaves skate in slow circles, and a red signal refuses mercy. The corner shop exhales dust and old paint, its windows blinking fall colors that taste like copper. Someone clutches a thin bag as if it might steady the hour. The others pass, each carrying a private rhythm, while the city keeps time with puddles and wires. I arrive late to this crossing and feel earlier years repeat beneath my feet. Near the curb, a paper calls out in fragments—sale, season, a question cut into the rim: Where Vojta? The words skim the air, smelling of leaf rot and ink, a plea that rubs against the wheel of a waiting bicycle. This corner has known apologies; it knows repair in small gestures, like returning to the same shop or crossing again under the same light. Does Vojta circle these streets still, folding into the crowd, or did the sign miss him by a single breath? The signal will change. The search does not.