In a sun-strewn system of the galactic rim is a world in a permanent tidal lock. One side is bathed with constant excessive death, irradiated desert with nary a single cell on the sands of its dusty wasteland. The other, dark as pitch, simply hasn’t the energy to support any form of life, absorbed as it is by the cliffed grounds.
But this world is strange. Its satellite is near a quarter of its radius, with its surfaces locked to the world’s as the world’s are to the sun. Its orbit, though, is long and slothenly, swimming through the vast ether of space like syrup.
Near twice a year, then, for near three earth-days at a time, the world falls into a deep mahogany eclipse. The sun-baked desert has a moment of respite, cooling vastly without the constant radiative heat.
In this time, these brief moments before the world is wrought inhospitable yet again, the desert blooms.