coolville

Deep in the heart of an endless, unbroken forest, a small town sits in quiet isolation, its presence almost accidental. The dense woodland encircles it entirely, a thick wall of towering trees that stretch for miles in every direction. The forest floor is a tangled mess of roots, fallen branches, and patches of wild grass, and the air always carries the scent of damp earth and pine. Sunlight filters through the canopy in uneven patches, never fully reaching the ground, giving the woods a constant sense of twilight. The town itself is built with no real sense of order—houses placed at odd angles, streets that curve unpredictably, and open spaces where it seems like something should be, but isn’t. The homes are simple, unassuming structures, made of wood and brick, their paint faded and their roofs patched with whatever materials were available at the time.