They raised this hut like a question in the tundra, stippling its skin in birdsong and faded promises, as though pigment could tether the fugitive name. Grass curls across the roof—a crown that feeds on silence—and the flowers kneeling around it imitate congregation, violet heads angled in solemn tilt. Motion stops here, then spools backward into rumors: first the voices, then the paint, then the footsteps thinning into basalt fog. No eyes show, but something tracks from beyond the ridge, patient, unspeaking, as though the mural confesses to a tribunal hidden in the cloudbank. Urgent fragments: flowers trembling, wind carving, ink drying, nobody answering. The script asks and asks—Where Vojta?—but the stone does not murmur, and the birds will not betray the path. This is their cathedral and their snare, and still his shadow refuses the ground, leaving us circling the altar of absence.