The metal creaked softly beneath him as the wind swept across the junkyard, carrying the scent of rust, dust, and old secrets.

Skwern lay slouched in a faded lavender stroller, one leg dangling lazily, the other propped up like he owned the place. Which, in his mind, he kind of did. No one came out here — not on purpose. Just broken things, tossed away and left to be forgotten. Kind of like him.

The stroller wasn’t made for someone like Skwern. It had probably once held a loud, sticky human child. Now it cradled a dragon — a small one, sure, but still a dragon. No wings. No fire. Just claws, teeth, and a tail that curled like a lazy question mark.

He didn’t ride it, not really. The wheels were rusted solid. But that didn’t matter.

It wasn’t about moving.

It was about resting. Watching. Thinking.

From his perch — half throne, half coffin — Skwern could see the tops of old vending machines, broken car doors, and the skeleton of a once-purple tricycle. The world around him had long since stopped caring. And honestly? He kind of liked it that way.

The stroller squeaked as he shifted, stretching his arms above his head.

A rat scurried by with a candy wrapper. Skwern gave it a nod.

“Good haul,” he murmured.

The rat paused, nodded back, and vanished under a pile of bent rebar.

He wasn’t lonely. He had the wind. The soft hum of power lines in the distance. The quiet. And the memories — faint and blurred, like smudges on glass — of when someone might’ve once called him theirs.

But now? Now he belonged to no one.

Just a dragon in a junkyard.

And that, honestly, was fine by him.