Twilight Vigil Terminal

I came down worn steps into a tunnel that remembers boots; my coat is stiff with dust and my hands are callused from a long road. An old CRT sits on a battered desk like an altar, its blue sigil ringed with runes and the words WHERE VOJTA? burning in cold light. Red emergency lamps smear shadows across tangled cables while a line of cobalt sconces vanishes into twilight; the machines hum and the air holds a simmering warmth from failing circuits. Beside the desk a rusted man-shaped form slumps against barrels, battle-worn and broken, while other terminals show lines of code that were once attempts to trace a name. I have followed those lines and worn paths farther than most, but the question on the screen stays open; Vojta is not here and has not answered. I set my pack by the keyboard and mark this dim station as a waystation, an ardent pilgrim kindling a quiet hope that will guide the next step of the search.