The sky burned sideways—half sun, half shadow—as if the world couldn’t decide which way to turn. Wind whispered through thorn and stone, and even the scorpions stayed still. Under the eclipse, everything felt ancient and unfinished, like a story waiting to be told or erased.

He hadn’t seen another soul in three days. Just dust, bones, and the slow hiss of heat. He drank sparingly, walked carefully, and waited for a sign that he was still meant to be alive. Then the light shifted—unnatural, unholy—and the dead tree ahead of him lit up like a signal fire.

Maybe it was warning. Maybe it was welcome. Either way, he moved toward it.