The buildings are empty. Sand drifts in corners and blows along the walkways. The grass in the park is reduced to a few stubborn patches. Even Aazamon's statue is starting to look a little worn, a little pitted.
At his feet I leave a few offering, a few memories. A fragment of casing; if anyone were to track down the serial number engraved on it, they'd find it belonged to a mining tower place along the Stret's east bank, several years ago. A twist of ribbon. A broad-brimmed hat once worn by a friend. None of it weighs much, but every bit counts.
I turn and start walking north, up the hill, out into the deep deserts. The wind blows past me, carrying a few grains. Let it all go. Let the sand cover it.
