The dark satanic mills loomed over the village just as the Victorian factories that had become desirable apartments used to. They were gone now. The owners had moved to somewhere the view was unobstructed, clear out at least where the buildings blocking that view were not windowless boxes. Giant boxes on the hillside. Giant boxes full of ticky tacky. Black boxes. The village was home now to the boxes and the few who secured them, cared for them. When the pits closed there had been an eery silence. The village wasn’t silent now. Few people now, just a constant hum.