Sparks for Vojta

The torches began before the floodlights caught up, a nervous choreography along the hull, each strike flaring like a whispered oath. I noted the date in the margin—late shift, rain still clinging to everything—and the smell of hot iron swaddled us until breath tasted metallic and sweet. One by one, the letters burned through black paint: WHERE, then VOJTA, the question mark flung last, almost petulant. It felt intimate, forbidden, to etch a plea so loudly. They worked shoulder to shoulder without speaking much, boots slick on planks, trust stretched thin as the welding lines. Someone paused longer at the V, spark falling away like doubt. I wondered who had asked them to do this, and who had promised not to tell. Water lapped beneath the hull, cranes loomed like listeners, and the night hovered between blue and bruise-purple. When the torches finally cooled, the question steamed in the rain, unanswered. The log closes here, and still Vojta is not found.