You can still appreciate the moisture of the night absorbed by the cliffs of Dwejra: green, towering, plunging into a calm sea. They are a sight for sore eyes after so much land scorched by the summer sun. We forget about the Ranger, and jump into the water with a coin under our tongues as payment for the ferryman who must open the door to the underworld for us; an unexpected and incredible route via an endless crack, with vaulted ceiling and collapsed walls resting on a distant bed of fine white sand. We advance carefully, knowing that those who are not chosen will wander in its waters for a hundred years. Once inside, wrapped in a darkness that we try to combat with the lights of the cameras, we do not find wandering souls but quite the opposite: the place exudes life that is imperceptible to the naked eye. We do not exist as far as they are concerned, and they do not exist for most of us. Slowly but surely we run out of air, and although we would like to stay, like Heracles, Cerberus or Psyche, our journey must be one of there and back again.