He knocked on the glass like a ghost in the sun, A mirage in red, Framed by thorns and fractured light. The desert yawned, Unbothered, infinite— A place where promises go to dry up and die. The old man smiled, His beard stained with dust and regret, Eyes whispering stories no one stopped to hear. Outside, the cactus bloomed, Fruit like bloodied ornaments, Ripe for no one.