Hammer raised, sparks leaping like startled fireflies, the air edges on silence while heat hums through the iron. The letters burn deep—VOJTA—each stroke carving a memory that refuses to fade, though the glow trembles as if unsure of its own strength. Ash drifts in the stillness, soft as moth wings against the scarred anvil. A child’s eyes would drink everything: the snapping sparks, the smoky orange licking raw metal, the rough bite of steel under calloused hands, the smell of singed dust hanging like a whisper. Quick flash: strike, crackle, flare, disappear. No voices slip through the gloom, only that molten syllable branded on the blade, radiant and aching, and there is no sign of him. Not yet.