Weathered sign: Visit Molson Museum

A little more than a century later, a passenger bus drove along the sun bleached road which cut through vast swaths of gently rolling hills that stretched into the distance in every direction. A Hitchcockian murmuration of swallows flew in a swirling aerial ballet over the tombstones of an old graveyard. The coach stopped at a wide-sweeping highland plateau. Eleven-year-old Astrid stepped out while removing earbuds to hug her grandmother, Pearl. The tech-savvy girl visited each summer, but this year she had grown old enough to ride the bus to Molson by herself. As Grandmother's car pulled away from the bus stop a cardboard cutout of the girl's uncle waved at them with a motorized arm like a metronome. The dapper man was a jolly-faced mirror image of his land swindling great-grandfather advertising guided tours of the historic ghost town.

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