Eruption at Sundown

Lava surged like a red confession while the sun split the horizon into blazing shards. Columns of smoke curled inward, clutching at the sky as if bargaining for breath, and the mountains leaned darkly against the flame, stoic witnesses to excess. I remember running—eyes darting, breath clipped, shouting names into molten wind, watching rivulets harden mid-sentence. Sparks hopped like vagrant stars; shadows jittered and flinched with every burst. Somewhere between the plumes and the golden glare pulsed the brittle promise of triumph: we lived, if only barely. We had believed the banner would guide him; we painted WHERE VOJTA? so desperately large it could blind a saint. But the volcano only answered in orange tongues, in restless arcs spilling toward a vanishing point colder than any map. I scanned the streaming edge, my arms trembling with held questions, and still the horizon murmured the same impossible thing: Vojta hasn’t reappeared.