I stand on a medieval stone causeway that bridges a churning pit of molten rock, the stones black and pitted from long storms of flame. Heat presses at my face and ember-sparks skitter like frightened insects as a smoky script hangs above: Where Vojta? written in curling fire-smoke. A war-worn iron staff lies abandoned where the path narrows, its iron blistered, and the smoke seems to rise from that broken metal as if the question is born there. I have crossed thresholds older than my memory with battle-worn hands, counting heartbeats against the blaze, yet Vojta remains unfound and the causeway keeps only this mute hint. Time blurs under the heat; steps must be quick, the air accelerating toward the gorge, and the only small proof of passage is a tiny coal caught in a crack like a stubborn star. I keep moving, manic with hunger for an answer, holding to the dreamy conviction that a threshold can be crossed twice.