The sun bled across the parched sierra, a stain on the sky's raw wound. Dust motes, ancient and weary, danced in the failing light. A lone figure, etched by hardship, rode into the settlement, if such a collection of lean-to shacks and wind-scoured timber could be called that. His horse, a gaunt shadow of itself, moved with the slow, deliberate rhythm of a dying clock. He dismounted, the creak of leather a complaint in the still air. His eyes, the color of old flint, swept across the desolation. No sign of life beyond the buzzards circling high above, patient and dark against the immense blue. A dog, ribs like corded rope, watched him from the threshold of a ruined cantina, its gaze empty of all but a primordial weariness. He went inside. The air was thick with the scent of decay and stale spirits. A single shaft of light, thin as a ghost, pierced the gloom, illuminating the dust motes still dancing, eternal. The bar was splintered, a testament to long-forgotten brawls. Empty bottles, coated in grime, stood like petrified sentinels. He ran a gloved hand over the pitted surface. The cold of it seeped into his bones. He was a man of few words, and those he spoke were often lost to the wind or the vast indifference of the landscape. His history was etched on his face, in the deep lines around his eyes, in the set of his jaw. A ledger of violence, paid in blood and sorrow. He carried a rifle, its stock worn smooth by countless miles, its metal glinting faintly in the dim light. A tool of necessity, not malice, but nonetheless a harbinger of finality. He knew the land, its cruelties and its sparse mercies. He knew the weight of an empty belly, the sting of a thirst that gnawed at the very marrow. He'd seen men broken by less. He'd seen the flicker of madness in their eyes before the end came, swift and unceremonious. Outside, the last vestiges of twilight clung to the horizon, painting the clouds in hues of bruised purple and dying orange. The wind began to whisper through the empty streets, a mournful lament for all that had been lost, for all that would never be. He sat in the silence, the dog still watching him from the doorway, a silent witness to the passing of time, to the slow, inexorable march of desolation. He would stay the night. Then, with the first cold breath of dawn, he would move on. The road stretched before him, endless and unforgiving. And he, a speck in its immensity, would continue his journey, a wanderer in a world stripped bare, a ghost among ghosts. The land would claim them all, eventually. It always did.