They reached the house by afternoon. It stood crooked at the end of a half-forgotten street—roof patched with mismatched tiles, weeds growing for too long, the door not looking very safe.

“This is it?” Marek asked, pipe between his lips. It tasted like burnt jam and overconfidence.

Oswald nodded. “Used to belong to a man named Tholin. Collector of strange things, dangerous objects, and unpaid debts. He vanished last month.”

“And someone moved in after that?”

“Yes. Bram.”

Marek frowned. “Sounds brave.”

“Or stupid,” Oswald replied. “He’s... energetic.”

They knocked. No answer.

Marek tried the door. It was open, as if expecting them.

Inside: dust, silence, and furniture that had lost the will to stand straight. A couple chairs leaned against each other like old friends after a long argument.

“No signs of a delivery,” Marek muttered.

Oswald walked the perimeter calmly, his fingers trailing over the walls. In front of the fireplace, he stopped. Thin lines shimmered faintly across the stone, curling like frost patterns.

Marek blinked. “There it is again. Magic dust?”

“Path trace,” Oswald said. “Left by Tholin. Knowledge always leaves a trail. If you know where to look.”

“Convenient.”

“Necessary.”

They followed the lines to a stack of half-crushed boxes in a corner. Slipped between them, folded notes—rushed handwriting. Oswald read them quickly.

“Bram took it. Said it felt ‘weird’ and he didn’t want to sleep in the same house with it. So he brought it to the old quarry. Northwest side.”

Marek stared. “Why do impulsive people always go into holes?”

Oswald tucked the notes away. “It’s abandoned. No one goes there anymore.”

“I wonder why.”

Marek lit the pipe again. This time, it tasted like citrus panic. He didn’t like it.