They walked for a while in silence, the echo of their footsteps bouncing back like a lazy applause. The quarry had gone from rocky to... oddly polite. The further they got in, the cleaner it looked — as if someone had tried sweeping the dust but gave up halfway through a motivational speech.

Marek took a long drag from his pipe. It tasted like bad mint tea left out in the rain.

Oswald gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re aware this place is dusty enough without seasoning it with that fog of yours?”

Marek exhaled a heroic cloud. “That’s just how I mark territory.”

“You’re marking your lungs.”

They walked past a rusted wheelbarrow and what may have once been a coat rack, now claimed by lichen.

“You know,” Oswald added, “you did seem responsible once. The way you immediately asked about getting a job when we arrived in town… for a moment I thought I’d met someone proactive.”

Marek gave a slow shrug. “I didn’t want one. But it’s what happens, right? You don’t find a job, a job finds you. One day there’s an opening. Next thing you know, you're working. Like getting sneezed on by fate.”

They passed under a low stone arch where the walls narrowed and the temperature dipped. The light dimmed too, which Oswald claimed was natural but Marek strongly suspected was ominous.

Eventually, the rock gave way to a half-collapsed corridor that slanted slightly down.

“That humming,” Marek said, pausing. “Sounds like my old fridge. The one that tried to impersonate a helicopter every time you opened the door.”

Oswald ignored the remark. As usual.

“Residual vibration,” he said instead. “Path Ore. This quarry’s full of it. Think of it like a tuning fork — still resonating after the strike.”

Marek grunted. “Still terrifying.”

They took a few more turns, stepping past forgotten crates and shattered lanterns, until something flickered at the edge of Marek’s vision.

A tiny shape.

Low to the ground. Rolling forward with purpose.

“Oswald,” Marek muttered, stopping.

“What?”

“There’s… nothing.”

The hedgehog had already vanished down another corridor — one that bent to the left like a wagging finger.

They followed.

The path opened up into what must’ve once been a storage chamber — but now looked like a lost attic trying to pretend it was still employed.

Crates stacked haphazardly. Broken tools. Dust.

And in the center, half-buried in rock dust and a blanket of quiet — the Lantern.

It glowed softly, as if dreaming.

The flame inside moved slowly, with the rhythm of someone whispering in their sleep.

Marek took one step forward, pipe forgotten.

Oswald raised a brow. “Well. Now we know why Bram couldn’t stop thinking about it.”