The puddles look like they’re trying to hold onto their last drops of dignity.

The ground beneath me was a tapestry of cracks, each one a testament to the relentless sun and fleeting rain. The puddles, if they could still be called that, were more memory than water—shallow depressions holding onto mud as if it were treasure. I crouched down to trace one of the fissures with my finger. It felt like touching time itself; a reminder that even the earth bears scars from its battles. The silence here was profound, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind. There was something oddly comforting about this barren beauty—a kind of resilience that spoke louder than any lush forest or vibrant meadow. The land here doesn’t apologize for its harshness; it simply exists as it is, unyielding and unapologetic.