The snails edged higher on the coral terraces, their shells glinting like half-captured moons. No breeze reached them, only the soft brine-stung perfume rising from red fronds below. Above, jellyfish drifted in militant quiet, forming a loose ceiling of translucent resolve. That ragged banner—WHERE VOJTA?—lashed against its brittle mast, a dare to the currents, a refusal to let absence sink without a fight. I traced the layers of their platform, each tier a stuttering echo of attempts to climb beyond uncertainty. One snail pressed forward as if insisting the next shelf must reveal him, while another lingered, antennae twitching rebellion against stillness. Together they pivoted between patience and desperation; it felt like watching arguments carved into calm water. Yet beyond their glassy shells, no answer flickered, only drifting lights and wet silence. Whatever clue Vojta left, it lies off-frame, steeped in salt and shadow—he remains nowhere in sight.