The wind rose over the flat expanse of Florida, born from the restless Atlantic and rolling westward in the heavy heat of afternoon. It slipped through palm fronds, rustling the dead leaves that clung stubbornly to their branches, and whispered across the wide lanes of I-95, where cars moved with the slow inevitability of a retirement parade.

It crossed gated communities and half-finished luxury towers, stirring the stagnant air in theme parks and strip malls alike. The wind carried with it the scent of salt and distant wildfires, but also something else—something faint, yet impossible to ignore. The kind of feeling that lingers like humidity long after the sun has set.

At last, the wind curled over the high walls of Mar-a-Lago, where fountains bubbled beneath the gaze of marble lions, and the grass lay clipped so fine it seemed the earth itself feared displeasing the one who reigned there. On a balcony, a man stood, golden-haired and heavily spray tanned beneath the fading sky, eyes narrowed at the horizon as if he alone could halt the turning of the world by sheer will.

Donald Trump shifted his weight, resting heavily on the rail. The wind tugged at his tie but did not move him. Here, in this strange land, the Wheel of Time did not turn forward, nor back. It spun in confused, lurching spirals, tilting precariously at each revolution. And over it all, the wind blew, indifferent to the affairs of men. The wind was not the beginning, but it was a beginning