By the time the border post came into view, a weathered stone structure standing at the junction of three worn roads, the sun had cleared the horizon. Its light fell harsh and unfiltered across a landscape caught between desolation and recovery.
Trees here grew stunted and twisted, but they grew. Grass pushed through rocky soil in stubborn clumps. Life persisted, however reluctantly.
The post itself showed signs of recent occupation. Smoke rose from a chimney at its eastern end. Two horses stood tethered to a rail outside, their breath fogging in the morning chill.
Most telling was the carriage waiting in the yard, well-maintained but deliberately understated, its dark wood polished but not ornate, its crest small enough to be overlooked by casual observation.
