The sign was still there, standing defiant against the flat, endless expanse of the desert—MOTEL, in letters so tall and brash they felt like a shout into the void. It was the kind of sign that once promised weary travelers more than just a bed; it promised escape. Neon tubing wrapped the letters, cracked and lifeless now, but you could imagine how it must have burned like a beacon in the dark, once buzzing with electric life.

The paint had peeled, exposing the steel skeleton beneath. The color—once a raucous red or maybe a deep cobalt blue—had faded into an ashen pastel, like lipstick on a corpse. Rust spidered along the edges, creeping like a slow cancer, eating away at the bold promise of the past. Yet, despite its decay, the sign held a strange dignity, an undeniable charisma.

The sign didn’t just mark a place; it marked a moment. A slice of Americana left to bake under the desert sun, slowly decaying but refusing to disappear. And as I stood there, staring up at it, I thought: maybe we’re all like that sign—faded, battered, but still standing, still reaching for the sky.