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Deep within the Shropshire countryside, the village of Yaughton stands empty. Toys lie forgotten in the playground, the wind blows quarantine leaflets around the silent churchyard. Down on Appleton’s farm, crops rustle untended, the early harvest abandoned halfway through. The birds lie where they have fallen. A pair of shoes hang from the overhead wires. The windmill continues to turn unobserved. Strange voices haunt the radio waves as uncollected washing hangs listlessly on the line. There is light in the wires. The televisions are tuned to vacant channels. Above it all, the telescopes of the Observatory point out at dead stars and endless darkness. And someone remains behind, to try and unravel the mystery.