Wind lashed shards of cloth around an alloy frame as if the desert itself were angry with its secrets. The figure’s metal spine, bent like a paperclip pressed into servitude, gleamed under a swollen halo of sun — a false moon hung too early in the day. Dunes surged at its feet, every rivulet etched with force lines that spoke of hasty arrival rather than calm pilgrimage. I read its eyes first: crimson pools promising interrogation, threads of dust trembling toward its breathless question. Months ago, in a shuttered archive that smelled faintly of cumin and cold ink, I logged the same curve of steel taped to Vojta’s notes. Now those fragments scatter through the air like receipts for forgotten sins. The scarf twisting in that heat-whipped silence attempts to shield something—hope, or maybe memory—but nothing here shelters us for long. If this sentinel, half-machine and half-myth, is asking where Vojta is, then truth remains out of reach. He is still unaccounted for, lost beyond the hiss of these shifting sands.