Ledger by Water

Mid-shift, though the clocks had given up, I watched sparks spit from cold iron as the crane coughed awake again. The pier glazed itself in rain and salt, every stone memorizing weight. A man reached toward a box that had no business staying closed, fingers hovering like a prayer he’d forgotten the words to. Nearby, a pair of boots waited, emptied of heat, and the river answered by licking its edge higher. Someone scratched tallies into the quay—counts without totals—and below them the question kept surfacing, chalky and stubborn: Where Vojta? I wrote this down after midnight, the lamps leaning their halos just enough to forgive us. The chest breathed damp cedar and old voyages. Sparks flew, time slowed, and nothing resolved. We measured, we kept watch, we did not lift what wasn’t ours. The water kept its counsel. Vojta did too, and remains unaccounted for.