Here lies the forgotten path, woven through the remnants of a town that once thrived, now left to embrace the gentle decay of time. Cracked asphalt cradled by creeping moss cuts the skyline—its journey marked by footprints of those who once sought something, anything. An old lamp post flickers, not out of electricity's dance, but rather retaining whispers of a long-dry grace.

In the autumn, leaves gather in curls, speaking of warmer days. They cradle secrets in their crumpled embrace, tales of pasts no one remembers anymore, but when wind catches their sighs, history breathes through them again, if only faintly. Above hangs an irrevocable silence, a witness to voices long faded: laughter and quarrels left their echoes and drew their paths in sand.

Jonah lives here, not far from the bend. You might hear him mutter under his breath as he tends to his overgrown garden, a riot of green and the rare burst of color. "What was once is no longer," he'll whisper to the weeds, "Their tenacity is comfort." Everything is falling away, bit by bit, piece by piece, and yet in the cycle of decay there lies a strange serenity.

Wandering further, one stumbles upon relics: an old playground, rust clinging desperately to swings and slides, trying to hold onto memories of children’s joyful chaos. Walk closer, and you'll see the vestiges of painted dreams on walls—the phantom figures still dance, even as their eyes grow dimmer in the permanent dusk. Rusted chains hang loosely, swinging only at the whim of time's brushing hand.