At first light the carnival simmers like a weathered reliquary, orange ropes of lamp-glow and long shadows folding between stalls. A hooded sentinel stands at the center, palms cupping a cool glass globe that reads Where Vojta? in shaky letters. The sentinel's intention is plain and tactile: to hold answer-less light high so wanderers can orient, to mark a waypoint on a worn lane that has become a pilgrimage. Tall stilt-figures and ferris spokes lean into the dawn, their rusted brass and splintered wood handing down routes for those who come to ask and listen. The guardian flinches at every clatter and lurch of looping rides, guiding small groups along ruts in the turf and away from fragile tents as if shepherding the living past relics. Vojta is still not here; the globe keeps asking and the search moves on under textured light.