The town is silent and desolate. You don't even remember how you got here. Ash gently falls from the gray sky like snowflakes, coating the cracked pavement and abandoned buildings in a thin, ghostly layer. Each flake lands without a sound, adding to the heavy, suffocating stillness. The air feels thick, almost tangible, and carries with it a faint scent of something burnt and long forgotten.

The streets stretch endlessly in both directions, empty—too empty. Hollow shopfronts stare at you with broken windows like the blank eyes of long-dead things. Doors hang crooked on their hinges, swaying gently even though there is no wind. Street lamps flicker weakly overhead, casting trembling pools of sickly yellow light that seem barely able to hold back the darkness curling at the edges of your vision.

This isn't like the games you might remember. No familiar rules to cling to, The town shifts and breathes with you, reflecting not some fixed design but the raw, untamed landscape of your own mind. Here, the streets are shaped by memory. The buildings lean with forgotten fears. The air thrums with your guilt, your regrets, your buried dreams.

This town is you—the manifestations of the deepest recesses of your psyche. Every alley, every distorted figure lurking in the mist, every creaking floorboard, is a piece of you that has been ignored, hidden, or denied. The farther you wander, the more the environment warps, bending to mirror the layers of your subconscious you never dared confront.