Speech - Town, the town.

Town was a small place, tucked between two hills that loomed over it like silent watchers. The hills weren’t very tall, but they were steep and rugged, their bare trees reaching up like thin fingers trying to touch a sky that was always grey. The air here was always cold, damp, and heavy, as if the land could never shake off the chill of winter.

The road out of town was narrow and winding, with puddles from the morning rain. The trees along the way were bare, their twisted branches leaning in towards the path, casting long crooked shadows on the ground. The wind whipped through them, carrying the smell of wet earth and old leaves. It wasn’t a gentle breeze; it was sharp, like a warning, tugging at your coat and making the cold sink deeper into your bones.

The sky above was always clouded, thick and low, as though it were too tired to let the sun through. The hills rose up in the distance, their jagged edges cutting into the sky. You always felt that they were watching, waiting, their stillness pressing down on everything below. Even the air seemed heavy, as if the land was holding its breath.

Town itself was quiet—too quiet. The houses were small, with dim windows, and the streets felt empty, as though the town had forgotten how to be busy. There weren’t many people, and those who lived here seemed settled, not expecting anything to change. The buildings sagged with age, their roofs covered with patches of moss, and the sound of footsteps was rare, swallowed up by the thick, damp air. There was no rush here, no sign of life stirring. It was as if the town had grown tired and was content in its stillness.

The trees along the road were twisted and bare, their bark rough and weathered. The ground beneath them was soft and wet; each step made a squelching sound. It was the kind of place where the cold seemed to seep into everything: the ground, the air, even the silence. It wasn’t an angry cold, but a quiet one--a cold you couldn’t escape no matter how hard you tried. The land itself seemed to press in on you, reminding you that here there was no room for anything new.

The wind blew through the town like an old memory, quiet but persistent, tugging at the leaves and rattling the branches. It was a sound that echoed the past, a reminder of how long the town had been here and how little had changed. There was no rush here. Everything felt still, like it had always been here and always would. It was a place frozen in time, waiting for something that might never come. The silence about Town was like a living thing, wrapping around it like a thick, unyielding blanket. The land was too tired to move, too old to care.