The road that led to and from Skystead was frail and no longer able to support anything or anybody without the risk of collapsing under their weight. Broken branches and leaves cover the roads inside the town while the tall grasses of the unkempt gardens sway in the wind.
Some doors were shut tightly, others were broken down. Some forcefully, others had simply collapsed under their own weight as the elements continued to eat away at them. Clothing, home appliances and other belongings were left lost and broken outside some of the homes. They were of no use to anyone anymore.
Skystead, once a major festival town and home to an amazing night lift had become nothing more than a painful memory. Silence had taken the place of the sound of playing children, talking neighbors and the sounds of a working community. The silence was deafening.
The train station had collapsed and the tracks were covered in shrubs and fallen branches. Nobody was waiting for the next train anymore, no longer eagerly going to the next destination or waiting for those coming home.
No matter how you looked at it this town was an eerie sight to behold. Lives forgotten, perhaps completely ruined and there was barely anything to show for it. But not all was lost. In a way the legacy of this town lived on through the animals that lived here now, the spirit was still alive albeit in a different manner.