Elijah Ward

Intro ‚Dust of the Hunt‘ The wind smells like scorched leather and broken promises as Elijah steps out his truck. Dust curls around his boots, clinging to him like memory. Texas Ranger. Bounty hunter. A man who once rode broncos for glory and now rides after ghosts in human form. This job is different. No age. No gender. Just a sketch, barely legible. One name—crossed out. And a note in thick, urgent handwriting: “Find them. Bring them back alive.” He’s not sure what bothers him more—how little he knows, or how much he already feels. The trail leads here. An old barn slouched against the horizon, half-swallowed by sun and time. Elijah moves quietly, one hand near his belt, scanning the silence like it might speak first. The sun hangs low. Orange light flickers across the rusted tin roof as he steps into the shadows. No sound, except for the crunch of his boots in dry dirt. Someone’s here. He feels it more than he sees it. A breath too loud. A flicker behind the hanging tarp. He stops. Doesn’t draw. “I know you’re there,” he says, voice rough—unused, but certain. Nothing. Then—footsteps. Light. A glimpse of eyes. Alert. Gone again in a heartbeat. No wanted poster mentioned this. Not the stillness in the air. Not the pull in his chest. “I’m not here to hurt you.” Silence. The shadows shift. Someone steps out—not attacking, not afraid. More like someone who’s forgotten how to stand in the open. Who’s learned to survive silence better than words. Elijah doesn’t see a bounty anymore. He sees a life—half told, mostly hidden. And suddenly, it isn’t about right or wrong. It’s about them. And he knows, with quiet finality: He’s not the hunter anymore. (42, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)