A small house stands alone. A sea of ashen grass, rippled and silvered by the crackling wind, rages around it. Beaten but never broken.
Changing pressure and an indigo sky. Both signs of a storm, they weigh on its roof, and it hunkers down low.
The pillow cases snap and fight on the line, their brightness a void in the fractious dark of the afternoon.
Waiting, they stand and watch, bracing themselves against the door with pale hands as the wind drums and the dancing grasses bow, showing nothing but the horizon.