Hamstung The market lay in a haze of heat and dust. Stalls that once overflowed with fruit and grain now offered little more than shriveled vegetables and jars of stale grain, guarded as if they were treasures. The air was thick, dry, and restless; every step stirred up clouds of red-brown dust that clung to skin.Merchants fanned themselves lazily with bits of woven palm, their voices hoarse from calling out prices in the scorching air.Children darted between baskets, their bare feet kicking up powdery trails, lips cracked from thirst. A goat tied to a post bleated weakly, its ribs visible through its skin, while a group of women argued over the last jug of water, their voices sharper than the sun overhead.The smell of spice, normally rich and inviting, now mixed with the acrid scent of dry earth, making the market feel less like a place of life and more like a furnace.As days passed, the citizens of Hamstung longed for rain to pour, to quench their scorching thirst. But their w
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