The painting captures the enchanting melancholy of Malá Strana, a quiet street bathed in the golden hues of a Prague sunset, where time has seemingly paused to reflect on itself. Cobblestones, worn smooth with centuries of footsteps, glimmer faintly as though whispering tales of those who passed through before me. My hand lingers over the elegant facades of the Baroque buildings, their shadows stretching out like long-forgotten memories of the city’s spectral past. High above the intricate rooftops, Franz Kafka emerges as an ethereal, angelic figure, watching over his city with a gaze that is both tender and haunting. His luminous presence in the distance, with faintly glowing wings blending into the sky, feels omnipresent yet personal, as if I painted my own secret guardian of those reflective evenings walking from Charles University to my dorm in Hradčany.

This was the scene of my mid-20s, far from home, yet I was never truly alone. There, in Prague, while studying at Kafka’s alma mater, I walked these streets during a time of solitude but never of loneliness. His image—haunting portraits in cafes, delicate sketches in galleries—was everywhere, but it was on the climb toward the castle along Letenská and Nerudova where I felt him most vividly.

That uphill path, with its winding mystery and worn steps, always filled me with a sense of quiet resolve and belonging. My former dormitory, Kolej Komenského on Parléřova 6, waited a distance behind the castle like a perch over the poetic sprawl of a city alive with stories. The walk became ritual, pulling me deeper into the spirit of Prague, as whispers of Kafka's prose floated amid the air, mingling with the earthy scent of old stone and the faint sweetness of pastries baking nearby. I created this scene not just to preserve the memory, but to immortalize how those evenings felt eternal, drenched in a romance that could only exist under Kafka’s watchful wings.