Mud grips the tires as they skid through the broken gate, strands of wire bowing outward while the path cuts a raw seam into frost. The field holds its breath. Ahead, a purple-crowned tree lifts its own wounds into the air, stones torn from the soil and hovering at arm’s reach, their undersides glowing sickly green as if power hums where roots should be. No wind moves the branches. The moment locks itself in suspension. At the fence, someone has scratched Where Vojta? into rust and mesh, the letters jagged, urgent. A candle gutters beside a small photograph and a red toy car, wax pooling into the ground like it’s trying to anchor them all here. The barbs feel cold and exacting; they keep the living back while sheltering this fragile shrine. Beyond, the tracks vanish toward the floating tree, then stop. Whatever crossed this land did not come home, and the question remains nailed to the wire: Vojta is still not here.