Dust spiraled in loose coils along the uneven boards, catching the pale orange light that filtered through frayed canvas. Two green-skinned traders leaned close, voices pitched low, as if words might vanish before reaching the listener. Their table, scarred by knives, faced an empty corridor stretched with shadows and silence, where fluttering banners suggested years of neglect rather than celebration. A bird glided overhead, wings carving the hush, watching for something—or someone—that the rest had already surrendered to memory. Near the barrel marked with black strokes, the question burned louder than the noise ever could: Where Vojta? We scratched it there long after the gates closed, hoping rumor might take root. But those who once promised answers now argue over prices and bone-dry deals, and every missed dawn feels heavier than the last. I stand here again, rewinding the scene in thought, scanning alley mouths and overhearing bargains. Still no sign, only whispers drifting like loose parchment: the search endures, and Vojta has not returned.