The trail keeled sideways into many moods—stone gloom to crystal glow, meadow hush to mushroom lantern-fire. That sign, split across petals and rock, kept croaking the same question like a stubborn fiddle string: *Where Vojta?* We shuffled forward, breath hitching, gear squeaking soft rebellion against the still hush. Shadows lengthened, then broke into tremulous greens and blues, each frame blooming like an old book’s secret chapter. She tapped her pack once and murmured, “We keep on—he’s counting on it.” Her voice cut through the dream-shapes, the way a steel note cuts plain silence. And as colors bent, as both their forms seemed to shed and refit skin beneath shifting light, I felt the frontier widen—a metamorphosis of paths, none telling where they’d spill. Vojta’s trace shimmered like distant hooves on a rising wind, yet no solid tracks—nothing but that call looping through leaves and stone, saying he’s still out there, somewhere beyond the reach of this page.