Between 1926 and 1940, Ludlow and the roads west do not vanish—but they flicker.
A depression hollows out the banks and the breath.
Dust covers prayer and ledger alike.

Isaiah Whitman does not shout. He walks the alleys, the banks, the chalk-scuffed corners, writing sermons the wind might remember.
Clarence Whitman stays in the attic, voice low, broadcasting comfort through static and grief.
And Lila, kin by dust and willpower, drives west with silence as her passenger, naming ghosts at the wheel.

This is not a novel of triumph.
But of staying.
Of humming when no hymn survives.
Of trading cornbread for truth.
Of ringing the bell when the light returns.

This is The Dust and the Dream.
It holds.