The rain in Dustbowl wasn’t normal rain. It was thick, almost viscous, smelling of iron and something else… decayed roses. Not a pleasant scent, not at all. It clung to everything – the corrugated iron of Sal’s diner, the weathered…
The rain smelled of salt and something else—rotting kelp, maybe, clinging to the stone walls. Twilight bled across Haven’s harbor, a bruised purple and grey where the jagged cliffs met the restless sea. It wasn’t a pretty harbor, not anymore.…
The peaks clawed at a bruised sky, broken teeth against the fading light. Dust devils danced across the shale, ghosts of arguments long settled. Old Man Tiber, they called me, though I hadn’t earned the name through age. It was…