The Ballad of Rust and Roses

The sun, a pale ghost behind the perpetual dust haze, cast long shadows across the skeletal remains of what was once New Denver. Buildings leaned at drunken angles, their windows vacant eyes staring out into the wasteland. Twisted metal hulks, remnants of forgotten vehicles, lay scattered like discarded toys, swallowed by creeping sand dunes. This was the world Elias knew. A harsh, unforgiving world carved from the ashes of a forgotten civilization.

Elias squinted at the horizon, his weathered face etched with lines as deep as the canyons that scarred the land. He adjusted the battered canteen slung across his shoulder, its leather worn smooth from years of relentless sun and wind. His calloused hand tightened around the worn grip of his rifle, a relic from a time before the sky turned grey and water became more precious than gold.

He was heading north, drawn by whispers carried on the desert wind – whispers of a hidden oasis, a haven untouched by the ravages of the world beyond. Old Man Silas, hunched over a flickering fire in the ruins of what might have been a saloon, had spoken of it with feverish eyes. “Roses bloom there,” he’d rasped, his voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind.