The rain-soaked village of Willowbrook clung to the riverbank like a half-drowned animal. The water ran brown with silt from the spring floods, carrying the smell of rotting reeds and wet earth. Thatched roofs sagged under the weight of perpetual damp, their straw darkened to the color of old bruises. Smoke rose from chimneys in thin, defeated wisps, barely strong enough to push through the low gray sky. The streets—more mud than road—were churned into a slurry by cartwheels and bare feet. In Willowbrook, hope was a luxury no one could afford.
