Water reached my thighs when the corridor narrowed, cold enough to keep thoughts sharp. Stone ribs arched overhead, stitched with moss and tears of seepage, and the chalked plea on the wall snagged my breath: Where Vojta? Feathers clung there too, molting from some older rite, drifting with chains that ticked as the water moved. I kept my knife high to keep it dry, lantern low so its amber eye could read the ripples for traps, bones, answers. I remembered an earlier night when the same question burned on a bridge, written with ash before the fire took the road. That memory steadied me as a blue candle shivered ahead, impossible yet loyal, marking this room as a checkpoint someone else survived. Rusted chairs leaned like witnesses; a sealed door hunched beyond them, patient as a century. Every step stirred ropes and skulls, proof of passage and price. I followed the glow past the writing, knowing the trail still ran cold, and Vojta remained unaccounted for.