Some corners of Endfield County are ancient, built atop ruins of bygone generations of itself. Not unlike a fallen oak, which after many cycles of season becomes a rich soil in which a sapling finds root. 
This particular corner is empty, and has been for some time. The noise of activity that once emanated from it, replaced with quiet murmurs of leaves in branches. Window panes darkened by veils of dust, stare out from moss laden stone facades. Hints of flora seeping between gaps in pavers, now untrodden, take root and flourish in full. Foliage of two autumns past, collect in stair corners as carefully arranged by a meandering breeze. A river ambling down its usual path beneath a bridge, erodes it by some infinitesimally minute degree. The fox, in the dappled sun beneath this bridge, contemplates a memory of the first fish it ever caught.