Alex ducks through the low doorway first, immediately catching his forehead on the stone lintel. "It's fine," he announces, rubbing his head. "Totally fine. Solid structure." Mira follows, guidebook already open, rain spattering the pages. "Interesting — the chapel of Saint Sava, fourteenth century, partially collapsed in 1887," she reads, at which point a small chunk of plaster detaches from the ceiling and lands squarely on Alex's camera strap. Outside, lightning strobes white across the Adriatic and the thunder that follows is unreasonably personal. The chapel is perhaps three metres wide, smells powerfully of damp stone and wild sage, and is — they both notice at exactly the same moment — not empty. A single candle burns on the altar, wax still liquid. A wet scarf is draped over the front pew. Whoever this belongs to arrived here very recently.