Desolate as the umbra. Macabre as the psyche of a sociopath. An offset building, once connected to the neighboring ruins of an apartment complex.



Broken shards of glass and plywood smog-bathe across what was once considered to be a front yard. The struggles against the acid rains of yore, immediately post-biological warfare, have repelled any chances of repairing the natural soil beneath the rotting sediment of the land. The dream of picturing a cobweb along the lifeless structure beams would be a blessing of nostalgia to the pumping of hearts. A melted fencing borders the property, with a beautiful touch of a fallen mailbox in the front. Though seeming to have the wording worn off, whats left of it reads "res_den__". One would assume the smudge before it read the family name, following the word 'residence'. A strange hole is on the upper corner, of teeth marks, as if a person once bit the mailbox itself.

Inside blow a flute of putrid winds through cracks and crevices of a dieing ambiance. Of a world sentenced to time itself into an inevitable void. Fading scratch marks of tiny fingers, nearly evident to the hands of a small child begging for their life, are slightly covered in dust, vertically descending down the lower left portion of what was a window.
The furnishing within this cavern of a household has been roughly emptied. Signs of larva attempting to survive from the moss residue upon breaking wallpaper flow a pattern through the entire domicile can be identified by the keen eye.

A fairly worn table and chair sit within a room to the rear of the rubble.

Next to it, an impenetrable safe, brandishing some odd markings long forgotten. Symbolization of mystic text dates back, farther than Latin, Italic, or Etruscan. The box is state of the art, in near mint condition, with only the light and subtle beeps from its technological influence being the only hymn chanted.