A traveler trudges through the desert after eight days of being lost, pursued by an outlaw. Though he manages to escape, the weight of knowing it’s only a temporary reprieve presses on him.

In the middle of the barren landscape, he spots a town. Thirst consumes him, and the hope that it isn’t a mirage tightens his throat, as if pierced by a raven’s beak. As he approaches, the figure of the town remains intact—his hope takes root.

The townsfolk’s gazes are fixed on the horizon, blurred by shifting sands. When they see the traveler, a battered figure stumbling toward them, they recognize a harbinger of trouble. They know the town’s fragile peace is nearing its end.

The traveler, however, feels as lost among the people as he was in the desert. They avoid him, seeing him as a threat. Only a dog approaches—not to welcome him, but to beg for food. Tired of being ignored and abandoned by the townspeople, the dog seeks solace wherever it can.

Wiping the dust from his eyes, the traveler notices the sun-bleached wood of the buildings. He scans the scene: an old man, as grimy as he is aged, stands under a sagging roof nearby. The traveler withholds judgment, recognizing his own closeness to such a fate. A bit farther ahead, two men on horseback point at him, but keep their distance—the traveler imagines their conversation, and it doesn’t bode well. To his left, under a tree, an old woman plucks chickens, signaling it’s close to noon. On the right, he catches a glimpse of a girl in a red dress holding blue flowers, her face adorned with a smile.

A sense of finality washes over him, though it’s not enough to bring joy to his weary body. The girl in red moves away, and the traveler, now fixated on her, follows, the dog trailing behind.

A couple of shadows pass by in the opposite direction, perhaps glancing at him, but his focus remains on the woman. She disappears around a corner, turning left. He quickens his pace, the dog lagging slightly behind.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of her red dress slipping through a doorway—like a drop of blood in the air, foretelling misfortune.

He moves closer for a better look. The door, creaking on its hinges, reveals a weathered sign barely readable: “SALOON.”

His parched mouth prevents any cold calculation of the place’s dangers; his eyes are locked on the goal of chasing the woman. Determined, and driven by both curiosity and thirst, he pushes through the saloon’s swinging doors. The dog follows, though now with less enthusiasm.

As he steps inside, the ringing of a distant bell reaches him. It’s high noon.

The dog waits faithfully at the door.