Mist curled like fragrant breath from the dark canal, ghosting upward into lamps that hummed without promise. The letters stitched in ivy—Where Vojta?—clung to the wall as though they once rustled with a voice, now hushed. Above, a bridge held three figures in uneven rhythm, their steps trailing echoes across the water’s taut skin while reflections repeated history as if stubborn to let go. And then everything spoke at once—pavement glistening, shutters blinking, whispered names rising, steam drifting, footsteps halting, the scent of wet earth tangling with faint iron. In the sky, a shy arc of color strayed like a memory misfiled, its glow sliding into windows where someone might still wait. Every piece insists he passed through here, yet the current hides softer truths; the question vines deeper than moss. We have lamps, silhouettes, an impossible glimmer, and still no pulse of Vojta beneath those borrowed stars.