Neon Runfall

He breaks into the frame mid-stride, boots cracking a puddle that scatters neon like startled fish. The alley climbs and narrows, railings guiding the eye upward as smokestacks preach rain into the night. Laundry slaps wet applause against wires. Signs buzz in bruised colors, and one asks softly, Where Vojta?, as if the street itself has learned to worry. The chase feels older than tonight. Each step rattles crates, wakes a scooter’s mirror-moan, persuades the rain to sing harder. Light leaks from the puddle in implausible shards—pink and blue fragments skittering as though the ground remembers a better sky. Somewhere above, a window glows with domestic quiet while the path below tightens, demanding courage. Local lore says alleys choose their runners; survive the slick rail and you keep your name. He clears it, triumphant and already vanishing. The signs keep humming. Vojta does not answer. He remains unfound.