Two beetles inch forward in solemn rhythm, their armored backs glinting faintly against a tide of red dust. The dunes shape themselves like hushed breaths, curling toward the horizon where a spiked tower cleaves the sky. Every contour feels rehearsed, as though the earth once bowed here for a vow none can recall. At the center stands a stone, stoic and unyielding, bearing its spiral and a question—etched so deep it drinks the dim light whole: "Where Vojta?" The letters tilt inward, not for decoration but like instructions whispered to the wind. Whoever pressed this mark claimed the desert as witness. The ritual is plain in the posture of the carving, the curl that circles its truth, the way empty space tightens around its curve. Yet no prints linger, no figure waits. We only know this much: the search moves farther still, and Vojta slips deeper into the silence of sand.