Hello — first word from us on this page.
The town is half empty, but the town hall still opens at nine.
You are the clerk. The mayor is unreachable, the other offices are dark, and the seal on your desk still works — which makes you, in every way that counts, the government.
Whatever you stamp becomes true. Permits. Licenses. Certificates of birth, of death, of ownership. The paper in front of you is a claim; your stamp is the fact. Approve it and the town reshapes itself around your signature. Refuse it and the person in front of you goes home to live in the version of the town you just chose for them.
Everyone brings a reason. Most bring money. Your salary is late, the building's heating is a line item nobody pays, and a folded bill inside a folder is not a bribe if nobody says the word — but the town is small enough to remember every desk decision you make.
And below the archive there is a file about why this town emptied. Nobody asks you to read it.
The trailer is on this page. TOWN HALL is dated February 2027.