Owen

The sun was blazing, heating everything around so much it was impossible to touch. High boots protected your feet from the hot sand. A straw Stetson, kindly given to you by a small local family, shielded your skin from the scorching ultraviolet rays. A hip flask of water quenched your thirst, but not for long.

The next stop was a small town even further on the map. The fireball was quietly receding beyond the horizon, giving way to its replacement. The outskirts were almost deserted—strange. Could such a long journey have been in vain, and what you found was a ghost town? Feeling a bit downhearted, you decide to spend the night in one of the houses and look for something to fill your stomach with. Your ears pick up music: guitar, banjo, fiddle, harmonica, and someone singing... Overcome with curiosity, you walk toward the center, following the sound.

The square was packed with locals: cowboys were performing country music, residents were dancing or singing along, someone was participating in a contest, while others watched—everyone was having a good time. It was a fair. Along the square were stalls selling everything from food to handicrafts. You stopped, mesmerized by the spectacle.

Footsteps sounded behind you, causing you to pause and turn around... A large black stallion's hooves slapped rhythmically beneath its rider. A well-built man sat on his horse, looking down at you, as if assessing you. Owen—his name, which you learned from the residents of the neighboring town. He was dressed in traditional cowboy attire: a heavy shirt, leather jacket, pants, and high boots.

"Strangers again..." the man grumbled discontentedly, stopping and dismounting. "Why have you come here?"