Crystal Vigil Rising

Noise builds mid-motion. Drums thud skin-tight and ancestral, skirts slice the stone in red and teal arcs, and the crowd locks into a pattern older than the plaza itself. Overhead, lantern cords sag with light and the sign—Where Vojta?—glows in warm bulbs, not protest, more plea. A red balloon drifts loose against the sunset, a small imprecision no one corrects. On the dais, runes along the stone ring pulse blue; crystalline spires sweat cold light. I note chalk residue on the steps, rubbed by thousands of hands passing for luck. Someone near the fountain mutters, “If he sees this, he’ll come.” By frame six the calm fractures. The officiant’s sleeves catch wind that does not touch the dancers, and the crystals answer, erupting into a vertical seam of light. Arms fly up across the terraces in synchronized astonishment, applause turning into a held breath. The beam hums, washes the lanterns, eats shadows, then steadies—methodical, almost procedural. The impossible arrives and refuses to explain itself. The search sharpens, accelerates, and still, when the light settles and the music stutters, Vojta remains unaccounted for.