Half the town exhales in shadow, half exhales in fire. That seam down the sky feels carved, like someone split time with a blade and left us to wonder on which side promises still breathe. The bold letters hang from rough-hewn poles—WHERE VOJTA—a plea in broad cloth, snapping in a chilled breeze that tastes faintly of smoke and iron. Someone worked fast: ropes cut, banners strung, barrels dragged, tables tipped; urgency proofed into every knot. Morning’s rise seems to batter against night’s stubborn husk, and people watch from shutter cracks, candlelight ticking in thin rhythms. We searched each lane, followed whispers through timbered alleys, found footprints leading nowhere. The bell tower, crowned with sun, offers no answer. It only tolls a truth we cannot swallow. Vojta still slips beyond our grasp.