The road that led to and from White City was barely detectable beneath layers of dust, sand, shrubs, and leaves. The occasional animal could be heard rustling in the tall grasses of the unkempt gardens or hiding in the wild overgrown bushes.
Remnants of packages and magazines still lay at some of the doorsteps, unopened and long forgotten. At least the animals got some use out of them. There were signs of fires; in some cases, it was merely a trail of soot and smoke above a window pane; in others, it was a pile of ash where once a building stood.
White City, once bustling with life and brimming with light at this hour, was now a mere distant memory of better times. Were it not for the occasional bird call, the only sound in this town was that of the wind. The sounds of market vendors, playing families, and a loving community were no more.
