Desert Song
The wind rolled across the desert like a sigh, reshaping the endless waves of golden dust. James Wren wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his pack. He had walked this road for three days in search of a gas station to refuel his car. His water was low. His hope, lower.
Then he heard it.
A faint, crackling melody, twisting through the wind. It was impossible — a tune that didn’t belong to the desert, something old, something ghostly. He looked ahead, searching for the source.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the heat. But there it was, abandoned on the road — a rusting car from another time. The windshield was shattered, the doors long eroded by sand and wind. But the radio, impossibly, still played.
James approached cautiously. The melody wavered and dipped, 1930’s jazz, the kind played in smoky speakeasies a century ago.
His fingers brushed against the corroded metal of the door. A whisper of a voice rose out of the music.
"…always knew you’d find me…"
James’ breath hitched. He stepped back, pulse hammering. The voice was thin, feminine, stretched with age. It wasn’t a recording. It was speaking.
"It’s been so long, Jimmy."
The desert was empty. No one had called him Jimmy since —
No.
He swallowed hard. He forced himself to look inside.
The dial of the radio glowed. The voice rose from the speaker.
"You promised me a drive to the coast, Jimmy. You never came back."
He remembered. A lifetime ago, or maybe a hundred lifetimes. The night he ran. The night he left her behind.
The music crackled, fading in and out.
"I waited. I waited, Jimmy."
The wind howled and the sand began to shift.
The radio let out one last, ghostly note before falling silent.
Midjourney, Photoshop
Desert Song
The wind rolled across the desert like a sigh, reshaping the endless waves of golden dust. James Wren wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his pack. He had walked this road for three days in search of a gas station to refuel his car. His water was low. His hope, lower.
Then he heard it.
A faint, crackling melody, twisting through the wind. It was impossible — a tune that didn’t belong to the desert, something old, something ghostly. He looked ahead, searching for the source.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the heat. But there it was, abandoned on the road — a rusting car from another time. The windshield was shattered, the doors long eroded by sand and wind. But the radio, impossibly, still played.
James approached cautiously. The melody wavered and dipped, 1930’s jazz, the kind played in smoky speakeasies a century ago.
His fingers brushed against the corroded metal of the door. A whisper of a voice rose out of the music.
"…always knew you’d find me…"
James’ breath hitched. He stepped back, pulse hammering. The voice was thin, feminine, stretched with age. It wasn’t a recording. It was speaking.
"It’s been so long, Jimmy."
The desert was empty. No one had called him Jimmy since —
No.
He swallowed hard. He forced himself to look inside.
The dial of the radio glowed. The voice rose from the speaker.
"You promised me a drive to the coast, Jimmy. You never came back."
He remembered. A lifetime ago, or maybe a hundred lifetimes. The night he ran. The night he left her behind.
The music crackled, fading in and out.
"I waited. I waited, Jimmy."
The wind howled and the sand began to shift.
The radio let out one last, ghostly note before falling silent.
Midjourney, Photoshop