Rain needles the alley, turning tarps into sagging sails and the stone into a mirror of bruised color. A lantern lies on its side, shell cracked, coughing sparks into a shallow stream; the sound is all hiss and pop, answered by rain drumming the canvas roofs. The walls climb steep and close, hung with glowing symbols that feel borrowed from another coast, watched through torn fabric and rope. In the puddle at my feet, the words WHERE VOJTA? float, the paint bending with each ripple, brave and thin at once. This moment grew from an earlier night when the lamp still stood and the note stayed pinned, promising directions it never kept. Now the paper flutters free, the glow slants blue as if morning is testing the alley and finding it stubborn. Coins sit cold, banners fray, and the canyon breathes on without witnesses. I read the question again in reflected fire and water, listening for a voice down the corridor. The rain keeps answering instead, and Vojta remains unaccounted for.