Stan looked out to the city with a pair of sharp, cynical eyes that scanned over every recess, every cavity, searching for any hint of imperfection. There was none; the city was immaculate, as if it had been untouched. A cobbled path lined the streets, from where plants would spring up between the cracks, luscious and blooming.

‘How are you finding your stay?’ said a man of average height. He had blonde, wispy hair, and a pair of deep blue eyes.

‘Perfectly fine,’ replied Stan, who looked past the man and continued to observe the city.

‘The festival is soon; you must come see. Follow me.’

Before Stan had time to reply, the man grabbed his hand and dragged him through the cobbled streets. Eventually they reached a large expanse, booming with festive cheer. A large crowd grouped together. Stan must of have been mistaken, he could have sworn that from the back, they all looked the same. The same outfits. The same hair. They even looked the same height.