Corner Without Answers

The street sputters between day and night, sun flaring low enough to cut long shadows across wet cobblestones and a waiting curb. A chalk question claws at the wall—Where Vojta?—not loud, just stubborn, as if it learned persistence from the cracked plaster. A shopper pauses with a thin bag sagging at the knees, paper whispering, citrus ghosting the air; steps hesitate, eyes sweep the intersection, the red walk signal burns like a dare. Behind, a bicycle leans into the frame, spokes ticking warmth away, and passing coats smear motion into the hour. Puddles mirror shutters, leaves skate, shoes scuff, a stop sign sulks, a drain gulps, the signal holds red. This corner exists because someone kept watch here, waiting for a trace to surface where errands and crossings collide. The chalk stays legible as the light drains, insistence surviving traffic and time; the search presses on, and Vojta remains unaccounted for.