You’re listening to Neural Noir. I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Some towns fade slowly, boarded window by boarded window, until even the church bell rusts silent. But sometimes, a place doesn’t fade. It just stops. Doors left open. Meals half-finished. Radios still humming the weather. A place where the calendar never turned its page because the hands that should have done it were gone.

In the spring of 1951, one such place stood on the bend of a river: Greywater. A mill town, modest and steady, with nearly nine hundred people. And then, suddenly, no people at all. The streets were empty. The school half-written. The houses lived in but abandoned.

This is “The Lost Town of Greywater.”

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