There was a small village I visited a while ago. It used to be filled with people, until a volcano erupted nearby. Houses without roof, melted laptops, burnt teddy bear, utensils covered with volcanic ashes, dusty bed cover; it was inexplicably eerie.
But, somehow, it also felt fake. The stuff were too neatly arranged, and some were placed inside a glass case; the floor was slightly too clean, and the houses showed no sign of having survived an eruption.
The incident was real, but the place was heavily touristified.
I can only imagine what the place would look like had it been left unadorned. Walls full of burnt patches, moonlight passing through holes on the roof, dusty floor, plates and utensils on the sink, wrinkled shirt inside a half-opened closet, melted laptop sitting on top of the table, burnt books lying messily in the shelf.
Grey, gloomy, dusty, dark; raw and stark.
What would that place smell like? What about the air, would it feel dry?
I can only imagine.