In the winter of 2070, a group of electoral college students found themselves br
aving an unforgiving snowstorm on horseback, making their way to Washington, D.C
., through a frozen landscape that felt more like a scene from the 21st century 
than the 22nd. The world had changed around them, but some traditions, it seemed
, were too deeply rooted to abandon.

These students weren’t flying through the sky in sleek, hovercars like most of
 their peers. No, they were saddled up on sturdy horses, their breath visible in
 the frigid air, bundled up in thick wool coats, and their heads crowned with wi
de-brimmed cowboy hats. Their mission was simple but deeply patriotic: to travel
 from their respective states to the nation’s capital to cast their vote in th
e electoral college for the next president of the United States.

"Feels like we're in some kind of old western," said Clara, a student from Texas
, her voice muffled beneath her scarf and hat. She glanced sideways at the other
s, her eyes narrowing against the wind. "Everyone else is soaring through the sk
ies, and here we are, riding like real Americans."

"Real patriots, you mean," replied Ivan, a stoic student from Montana. He tugged
 at the reins of his horse, a sturdy chestnut named Rusty, as they made their wa
y through the snow-covered plains. His cowboy hat sat low over his brow, and he 
looked the part of the classic American cowboy, his silhouette strong and resolu
te against the harsh winter.

"Not sure this is what the founding fathers had in mind when they set up the ele
ctoral college," Clara muttered, kicking her heels gently to push her horse forw
ard.

Ivan chuckled. "Maybe not. But this here — it’s real. It’s honest. No flyi
ng cars, no shortcuts. Just us, the horses, and the road ahead."

Clara shivered, pulling her jacket tighter around her. The storm had picked up a
gain, snowflakes swirling fiercely, biting at their faces like sharp little need
les. The world around them seemed frozen in time, with nothing but the sound of 
hooves crunching in the snow and the occasional low whistle of wind cutting thro
ugh the stillness.

"It's kinda funny," Clara said after a long pause, glancing up at the specks of 
light flitting through the darkened sky — the flying cars, no doubt, of the ot
her students speeding toward D.C. "Everyone else is going faster than us. Theyâ€
™ve got all that fancy tech, and here we are... on horseback."

"Fast don’t always mean better," Ivan said, his voice calm but firm, as though
 it was a lesson he had learned long ago. "This journey’s about something diff
erent. The land, the history, the grit. You can’t get that kind of experience 
by flying overhead."

Clara was quiet for a moment, feeling the weight of his words sink in. She had g
rown up in the shadow of technology, with drones delivering groceries and self-d
riving cars taking her everywhere, so the old ways had always seemed outdated. B
ut here, in this bitter cold, on horseback, she could almost feel the heartbeat 
of the land, like the rhythm of her ancestors who had ridden before her. It was 
a strange kind of nostalgia, a deep-rooted connection to the past she hadn’t e
xpected to find.

They rode for hours, the horses’ steady pace keeping them grounded, even as th
e storm intensified. Eventually, they reached a small station near the outskirts
 of D.C. It was an old-fashioned hitching post, where they tethered their horses
 and made their way to the final stretch of their journey in a wooden wagon, dra
wn by a team of strong draft horses.

As the wagon trundled toward the city, Clara couldn’t help but look up at the 
sleek flying cars zipping overhead. She knew they would arrive in the capital fa
r faster than they could on their horses. But, as the city skyline began to come
 into view, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. The path they had tak
en, the struggle against the storm, the connection to the land — it was more t
han just a journey. It was a symbol of something enduring, something pure about 
the American spirit.

When they finally arrived in Washington, D.C., they were greeted by a new genera
tion of students, some of whom had arrived in their flying cars, their outfits s
leek and futuristic. But Clara, Ivan, and the others stood tall, cowboy hats in 
place, proud of the journey they had made, even if it was slower, colder, and fa
r more difficult than anyone could have imagined.

They were true patriots, after all. And no matter how the world changed, there w
ould always be a place for the old ways — for the horse, the cowboy hat, and t
he grit that came with it.