The network of roads that led to Tunstead was unrecognizable as nature had begun reclaiming the now unused area. The occasional animal can be heard rustling in the tall grasses of the unkempt gardens or hiding in the wild overgrown bushes.
Doors were broken, rotten and in most cases barely a door at all. Whether this was the work of looters, animals or the elements was unclear, but it didn’t really matter. Paint crumbled off of the walls and were slowly replaced by vines that crawled their way towards the rooftops.
Tunstead, once home to thousands of families and counting had become a forgotten relic of the past. Were it not for the occasional bird call the only sounds in this town was that of the wind. The sounds of market vendors, playing families and a loving community were no more.
The clock-tower was somehow still rich with sounds, but it wasn’t its bells and gears as those had stopped working a long time ago. It was a flock of crows that had made this once great pillar their new home.
You couldn’t help but feel lost in this town now, even if you knew exactly where you were. It was a lonely place with only distant memories of what once was. 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.
The main road that led to and from Aberystwyth was now indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. The crisp and clean looking town now looked more like a jungle as trees and gardens grew beyond their now unkempt boundaries.
Many doorways still stood tall and in some cases it was one of the few things left of a home. But most doors were completely gone and only remnants of rotten wood were left behind. Broken cars and rusty pieces of metal littered some of the larger driveways, stripped from all but their most useless parts.
Aberystwyth, once a major festival town and home to an amazing night lift was now but an eerie shell of its former self. The air which was once filled with the many sounds of a growing community had grown eerily quiet. The silence was only broken up by the occasional animal sound and gust of wind.
The art gallery was once the cultural pride and joy of this town and tourists flocked to see the art displayed here. Now it was home to a flock of doves who’ve destroyed most art pieces in their ignorance of what it once meant to so many people.
You could go anywhere in town you wanted, walk into any home and visit any previously private part of town, assuming it hadn’t been destroyed by nature already. But with nothing else to lose this town had a strange sense of comfort about it. Like a world of opportunity, except there was nobody there to take it.