The silent dance of stars

There are cities built beside rivers. Cities built around harbours. Cities raised upon hills. Memphis stands alone.

It rises unexpectedly from the desert, surrounded by an expanse so vast that distance becomes difficult to judge. Glass towers catch the sun above streets that seem to have no obvious beginning, while older districts disappear beneath layers of brick, stone and forgotten architecture that refuse to belong to any single age.

Most people never question why the city exists here. It has always been here. Or so they remember.

There are only two roads leading away from Memphis.

The Western Route climbs steadily towards the distant mountains before disappearing through a narrow pass.

The Old Desert Road is older than the city itself. Few choose to travel it. Fewer still speak about returning.

The desert surrounding Memphis is strangely absent from conversation. People cross it. People work within it. Yet maps rarely agree on its size, and no two journeys seem to take quite the same amount of time.

The city continues as though none of this is unusual. Deliveries come into the city via the highway, some via the desert road. Things come, not many things go.