Bathed in twilight, Roland Deschain stands in a field of red roses that surround a tower of massive girth. With arms crossed, he holds up a big revolver. Fingers wrap the sandalwood grips with noticeable tension on the trigger. Loosely knotted cloth spills from his other wrist, exposing the back of his hand, but not the fingers on his right hand. The cloth is bloody where it wraps over pinky and ring finger as he clutches the stem of a rose. Behind him, a narrow stone path leads through the field, past the faces of fallen statues that stare blankly up to the sky. Steps lead up to a wedge of light marking the tower entrance rendered as if the door is ajar. It's unclear whether the light comes from the chamber within or the flaring sun is shining through from the other side of the tower.

Bathed in twilight, Roland Deschain stands in a field of red roses that surround a tower of massive girth. With arms crossed, he holds up a big revolver. Fingers wrap the sandalwood grips with noticeable tension on the trigger. Loosely knotted cloth spills from his other wrist, exposing the back of his hand, but not the fingers on his right hand. The cloth is bloody where it wraps over pinky and ring finger as he clutches the stem of a rose. Behind him, a narrow stone path leads through the field, past the faces of fallen statues that stare blankly up to the sky. Steps lead up to a wedge of light marking the tower entrance rendered as if the door is ajar. It's unclear whether the light comes from the chamber within or the flaring sun is shining through from the other side of the tower.