Sliding past a rim of refracted rainbows, the creature arches its segmented body like a votive hand lifting through water. Above the pale dune of clustered shapes, letters spell their plea in hushed curves: **Where Vojta?**, grain-formed and trembling as though mid-prayer. These tessellated shards drift with patient conviction, recalling cathedral glass shattered but never discarded, each jewel a relic of the same enduring design. The era feels pinned between centuries—microscope grace intertwined with liturgical exactness—while soft fibers cradle the orb like a reliquary cloth. Silence holds, lit by cyclic shimmer, and something in the meniscus suggests both birth and aftermath. No footfall here, only the slow choreography of suspended lives, yet in that radiant stillness the search coils tighter. Vojta slips further from our reach, the glass remembering patterns he once traced but never revealing his return.