The land had run dry. A sea of dust and dirt flooded the parched surface. Small grains of sand slipped between crevices of an ancient, wrinkled ground. Deep were the cracks that were carved into the sterile soil, but running even deeper was the well in the middle of the plot. It once boasted a belly of fresh groundwater, splashing and trickling sounds emanating from its brick mouth. Now that well was humbled, its pride evaporated, and its life dead and gone. Lest a single drop be gifted from the clouds as a sign of pity, the land might as well become accustomed to its new climate.

Golden yellow and light brown dominated the lands. In the past, the place had boasted a myriad of colors: dark greens adorned the leaves and the dewy grass; vivid violet, banana yellow, and shades of pale pink festooned the flowers; and blood red bricks encircled the orifice to a hidden pool of deep blue. All that had been driven out in favor of black and beige. A little bit of brown and grey was permitted, but anything of a more vibrant hue was forbidden. The barely existent clouds, clothed in glorious white, and the heavens, with their wardrobe of midnight blue and cyan, seemed to be the only exception. The golden termagant in the sky continued to lash her light onto the Earth. Her heat scorched the soil and dried even the air. The skeletal trees swayed and kneeled before her, as though begging to be relieved of their suffering, but Mother Nature refused. Out of all the habitats in the world, that land was Mother Nature's prodigal son. Mother Nature was callous and unforgiving—a lesson learned the hard way.

Passersby galloped through. None of them bothered to halt and donate a few drops of clear elixir from their bottles. The land would gaze enviously at those who would turn a blind eye to them, especially those who dared to gulp down bottles of water in front of them. The slurping, gulping, trickling, sipping, even the snapping sound of a water bottle triggered them easily. Travelers had been sabotaged before, even without them knowing: hot sand would magically fill their shoes, irritating their feet, and hopefully burn their soles; thick roots from the trees would trip the unsuspecting, their branches stretching and lunging for the water source; the unluckiest would step on a seemingly small crack, only to realize that they were caught in a hole that opened up and attempted to swallow them. It was as if the desert was telling them, "Don't leave us."

But the desert had no voice. All the humans could hear was the beating of their hearts, steady like a wooden drum being beaten, the crunch as their shoes trampled the ground, and the whisper of the wind as it warned them to not linger. Most of them preferred to keep their lips locked and their tongues tethered to the back of their throats. To speak would be to expose the saliva in their mouths, which could evaporate in an instant. The air was much luckier than the land. It could breathe in someone's sweat. And for that reason, the land envied the air too.

Out of all the things the land envied, there was one thing that it despised the most. He paid a visit, the first one in decades, and carried a frown as he walked around the plot of land. He could hear it telling him, "You deserted us!" But he, like the others, kept silent. Clouds followed his path as he looked down on the ground. A single tear fell from his face. And then another drop. And then another.

The sun, threatened by his presence, retreated behind the puffy clouds, but they began to desert her. They began weeping as well, a thousand droplets falling from the sky. The heavens darkened, donning a dress of slate grey. The land opened its mouth wide.

He had returned. Rain had returned. The desert lapped at the water that it had missed, quenching its eternal thirst. Pitter-patter went the droplets as they landed softly on the soil's thick skin. The trees halted their begging and reached out to the sky. The land sighed and told the rain, "I forgive you."

Rain fell on the desert.