Stoves murmured like muted drums, their orange throats glowing against the vaulted gloom as if time itself simmered in cast iron. They had gathered here long after the bells ceased, sleeves rolled, collars stark against their throats, tracing the same measured steps along grease-dark tiles. No voices rose; only the hush of ladles breaking surface, a slow swirl whose rhythm matched the drifting steam. It is said they marked the wall by lantern haze, letters curved in soot-scrawl—Where Vojta?—a question trembling like a bird’s wing as three real shadows wheeled above, startled against the stone. Some swear the script deepened each hour the broth thickened, as though iron, fire, and longing fused into one taste on the tongue. When the final lid sealed and silence steeped in the rafters, no footprint told the way he fled. Their vigil ended in cold whispers, and Vojta, still unfound, lingers like smoke drawn back into the sky.