It was once a bustling place, this town, boasting a dry goods store, a green grocer, a milliner, and a lumber yard. When the weather was pleasant, the bench in front of the bank held members of the "spit and whittle club," as they were known, a collection of retired gentlemen who whiled away their time watching passers-by and gossiping. The local teens hung out at the drug store, the girls, sipping sodas, perched on stools at the counter, while the boys horsed around in an effort to impress them, farmers would gather at the feed store and talk about the weather and crop yields, and the door to the post office never seemed to close, as town folk and country people alike came in to pick up their mail.
But the big city called to the teens, and the drought closed the feed store; groceries were cheaper in the next county and only the spit and whittle club wore hats anymore. The remaining boards at the lumber yard were used to cover the windows of the empty buildings, and one by one, the spit and whittle club members quietly passed away, their bench empty.
Shortly after the bank was sold, the flag at the post office was lowered for the very last time, and the town was no more.
Linking up with Ivy at Uncharted for Six Sentence Stories with the prompt "post."