The sun was setting on the dusty plains of the Wild West, casting long shadows across the deserted town. The saloon doors creaked open as a tall, rugged stranger sauntered in. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that shaded his eyes and a leather duster coat that flapped around his boots as he walked to the bar. The locals eyed him warily, but no one dared to speak up - this was not a man to be trifled with.
It was the summer of 1998, and the air was thick with humidity as I made my way down the dusty dirt road towards my grandparents' farm. The same old oak tree greeted me at the entrance, casting a welcoming shadow over me. As I walked closer to their house, I could hear the familiar creaking of the porch swing that had been there for as long as I could remember. It had been two years since my last visit because of school obligations, but it felt like only yesterday when we sat around their kitchen table eating freshly baked bread and strawberry jam.
