Sundering of Horizons

[Log 87—unfiled] The air quivered like struck bronze when I reached the midspan of Charles Bridge. To my left, the city stretched under a bruised indigo glow; spires bristled like watchtowers, and impossible towers drilled upward, whispering in chords I could feel along my ribs. To my right, firebat clouds bled under the swollen sun, pouring molten syllables onto cathedral walls. Between those halves, the river held their argument in its glass, each ripple a voice refusing to quiet. Behind me, someone had scrawled it in light—WHERE VOJTA?—and even now the letters flicker on the billboard like a pulse struggling to continue. Gondola bells chimed faint counterpoint to distant singers, though none stood in sight. That threshold hummed under my boots as if convinced another step might shatter one era or the other. He crossed here; the traces heat the stone still. And yet, even under such twin brilliance, his silhouette will not resolve. Vojta is gone, and the line between worlds keeps widening.