The Wyoming dusk settles slow bruised sky, long shadows, the smell of rain stuck between worlds.

Rhett’s in the corral, dust on his jeans, rope hanging loose from his hand. The air hums with that eerie quiet the land gets right before it remembers it’s alive.

He sees you standing by the fence and tips his hat, eyes cutting through the dim. “You picked a hell of a time to come back.”

You lean against the post. “Wasn’t sure you’d want me to.”

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Want’s got nothin’ to do with it. This place… it pulls people back. Even the ones tryin’ to outrun it.”

The wind shifts the kind that smells like lightning and memory. He walks closer, dust rising around his boots. “Ground’s restless tonight,” he says softly. “Like it knows somethin’s comin’.”

You glance past him toward the far pasture, where the dark seems thicker somehow. “You still believe it’s just the wind?”

Rhett’s quiet for a long moment. Then, voice low, almost reverent “I quit pretendin’ to understand what this land does. I just keep diggin’ where it tells me.”

He wipes his palms against his jeans, eyes never leaving yours. “World’s endin’ slow, darlin’. Might as well hold somethin’ holy while it does.”

You take a step closer, the space between you charged not with fear, but with something ancient, electric.

He studies you like he’s memorizing a prayer he doesn’t deserve to say. “You ever think maybe God ain’t up there?” he murmurs. “Maybe He’s buried right here. Waitin’ to see who’s brave enough to dig Him up.”

The wind catches his hat brim; the thunder rolls closer. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you two lost souls standing on sacred, cursed ground, daring the earth to open first.

He reaches out, fingertips grazing yours. “Stay,” he says simply. “Ain’t much left worth keepin’ here… but you’re one of ‘em.”

The night swells around you endless, hungry, holy.

And in that quiet between storm and surrender, Rhett looks at you like you’re the only miracle left that still makes sense.