Tillydrone, once a vibrant festival town buzzing with energy and life, now stands as a ghostly shadow of its former self. Where laughter, music, and the steady thrum of nightlife once spilled into the streets, now only the quiet hum of insects and the sigh of the wind through hollow buildings remain. The creaking of old trees—once barely noticed beneath the sound of engines and celebration—has reclaimed its place as the town’s dominant soundtrack.
There was a time when noble men and women stood ready at the town’s fire station, ever prepared to rush into danger for the sake of another. Sirens would blare, boots would hit the ground running, and help would always come. But no one could save Tillydrone itself. Its decline came slowly, then all at once, until the proud station no longer responded to calls—it simply stood still, a monument to lost purpose.
Ironically, the only ones to find a new life within its walls were not people, but cats. Dozens of them made their homes among the empty bunks, sleeping in helmets and patrolling the silent trucks like ghostly guardians of a past no one remembers.
Tillydrone is not entirely gone. It lives in memory—in the whispers of wind through broken windows, in the distant meows from the fire station, and in the stories told by those few who still remember what once was.
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