The petition from Ridgewell began as a handwritten sheet pinned to the door of the old community hall. It was Thomas Weller, a retired schoolteacher, who wrote the first line: “We request the restoration of our elected council.” Within two days, dozens had added their signatures—farmers, nurses, shopkeepers, the village postmaster. Their notes are still visible in the margins: worries about unexplained administrative changes, the disappearance of local representatives, the sudden redirection of funds meant for the community garden.
One recording—captured on a neighbour’s old phone—shows a small gathering behind the hall. People speak softly, almost whispering, as if trying not to attract attention. A nurse named Eliza mentions that the regional office no longer responds to calls. A farmer reports that new regulations appeared overnight, unsigned, applied immediately.

Four generations had built and repaired violins inside those narrow walls. A photograph from 2043 shows Margaret Turner guiding her grandson’s hands across a newly carved bridge, both of them smiling at the camera. Customers left notes tucked inside instrument cases—thank-yous for bringing old family violins “back to life.”
Invoices from the 2070s onward show increasing taxes and frequent inspections, yet the workshop continued. There is a receipt for a repair Margaret refused to charge for, insisting the violin belonged to a boy who “needed the music more than the money.” In 2096, a notice was pinned to the workshop door: “Property reclaimed for regional optimization.” No explanation. The next entries come from neighbors: the family leaving at dawn, carrying only what fit into a car. By 2114, the village no longer appeared on regional charts. Houses were reassigned to new zones. The fairground became an administrative depot. Only the church tower remained, unlabelled, standing alone on an empty map.

Over the following decade, maps replaced the village’s street names with numeric markers: R-12, R-13, R-14. The post office received letters addressed only to grid codes. A former schoolteacher recalls the day workers removed the wooden sign reading “Welcome to East Wexford.” She wrote in her diary: “It felt like watching the village lose its own name.”
East Wexford once held an annual summer fair in the field behind the old stone church. Photos from 2091 show children wearing hand-sewn costumes, parading behind a banner painted by the local school. The village had a small bakery, two pubs, and a single lamppost at the crossroads that locals jokingly called “the center of the universe.”