Chapter Text
There is no diner. There never has been.
In its place in the middle of the desert, tucked between dry scrub and boulders, is a small oasis. Actually, to call it that is generous; it is a patch of damp ground where greener plants grow, unfurling their leaves in the quiet of the evening and curling up again when the sun rises.
The night garden is miles and eons away from anything human; once, the people of this land had told stories about it, made journeys to drink from the water that flowed from the small spring at the center, but those days were long gone. Now, only the animals come to drink - fox and hare and flightless types of birds, they come creeping out of the heat and sleep beneath the thick green leaves.
When the evening arrives, the fox wakes from its slumber. It stretches and whines, feeling the heat of the day still lingering. The bones of its spine crack. It sniffs out the way, and trots down to the water's edge.
The spring itself is cool, and the water sweet. The fox laps it up, greedy and grateful. It sniffs around the edge, considering the hare that passed by some time ago, and then forgets.
The fox turns toward its nightly hunt, and finds something strange.
A book, slim and dark, lays in the mud at the edge of the spring. It is a worn volume, and the edges of the pages are stained. The fox sniffs it and discovers that it stinks of humans. Its nose wrinkles, and it nearly slinks away.
But there is something about the book that captures its attention.
The fox does not have words to name it, but it is curious. It leans in and sniffs the book again. It smells of humans, yes, but also of blood and ash and saltwater.
How strange. What an unusual book.
The fox does not know how it came to be here; there is nothing human in the area, and no stinking human tracks have passed through recently. There is only the spring, and the green growing things.
The fox does not care enough to wonder. The book is interesting.
Sniffing around, the fox works its snout beneath the book and bites down, gripping it with its teeth and lifting up. It will take the book to its den, rip out the pages and make something of a nest with them for the cold nights. It will tell the story of the finding. Perhaps it will add a human to the tale, to make it more interesting.
The fox sniffs and whines around the edges of the book between its teeth.
Yes, it will be a good story.
The fox trots away, taking the black-covered journal with it.
And through it all, the desert’s song never ceases, but rises and falls, the numinous ode of the earth looking up toward the sky.