Stavshire: a tranquil town located on the edge of sanity, miles away from the troubles of the city life. That's what outsiders may think. On the contrary, replaceable is no word to describe this small town, not after late September. Unfortunately though, no one was there to wake us up when it ended.
Much like a fog, the ninth month of the year had arrived and departed, depriving citizens of their visibility. They had lost their ability to read past the artificiality of neighbourhood smiles and faux invitations. You would expect there to be a book on Stavshire citizens—thick as our trust, thin as our rumours—but facades aren't so easily read when they're tucking you in and kissing you on your head.
We all have our suspicions as to who ushered the fog from a pit of burning loathe, revenge sizzling on a tongue of despair. We all have our suspicions as to who murdered that poor girl Lillian outside the movie theatre that frigid evening, gripping the innocence of Stavshire by the throat. This was the job of someone we all know like the back of our palms. Someone who we ate dinner at the same table with, shared jokes among, told secrets to or even love is possibly a cold-blooded killer; isn't that a comforting thought?
Stavshire: a convoluted town located at the edge of misery, miles away from serenity. What had once been the home to amiable individuals was now stricken by calamity.
Who do you believe? Who can you trust?