The wind howls low across an endless stretch of dry fields, carrying dust that clings to the air like smoke. Through the haze, a faint yellow glow flickers ahead — an old farmhouse half-buried in silt, its porch light swaying on a rusted wire. The air is heavy, dry, and warm, thick enough to taste. Wooden boards creak from inside, though the house looks empty. A table is set behind the window, covered in a layer of dust, two chairs pulled close together. The storm outside drowns every sound except for a soft hum — faint, almost human — coming from somewhere deeper in the house.