It didn't seem like the kind of place where anything would or could happen. It was almost as though you'd stepped into a Kincaid painting, and inside those glowing windows was someone's grandmother baking cookies, someone's grandfather telling stories, and someone's children staying up far past their bedtime.
A picturesque little town that someone had picked off the easel and placed in reality.
When you came, you had the distinct feeling that nothing outside mattered, that reality had been put on hold indefinitely. Whatever was happening in the world didn't concern you, because you were cooking or eating cookies, or sledding, or sitting in front of a fireplace roasting marshmallows. The town had an air of familiarity that made you want to stay forever, and so most did.
The ones who moved in didn't leave, and some of the kids joked that one day, they'd have the whole world in there, in the cozy little ville on the hill, with the beautiful pines that mde you pine for eternal winter, just so they'd be snowtopped year round. But each year, as more moved in, the place just seemed to incorporate them all into the family feel. There was never a cramped street or a house too full.
And then one day, someone said it.
"We're never leaving. This place feels like heaven."
Those who had been there the longest just smiled and shook their heads, not saying a word. And the ice cream trucks rolled, never out of anything, and the fire hydrants sprayed water, never wasting any of the town's money, and the kids always had snow days, never seeming to grow any older, and there were never any problems wit hthe police or the government, and no one ever investigated anything because there was no crime. It was as close to perfect as a place could be on Earth.
Yet there were those times when one wondered if Earth was a myth, and all that ever existed was the town, and it would keep existing even when everything else was gone.
The people were living in eternity, but most of them thought it Heaven.