Is this a dead place?

Ligurian countryside, in Cassana permanent residents can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Once a pulsating place of life and comings and goings. Hidden from the world, it protected my family and others from conflicts. A bubble that bursts every time a regular turns his back on it. A concentration of family stories, past and present, and the future? My ancestors laid their bones there, the stop at the cemetery is habitual, someone will have to stay and water the flowers. When they'll wither, Cassana will weep and with it the history it carries. The brambles advance on the roads, the affectionate cut them down. Nature takes over, wild boars descend into the valley. It is also my duty to water her plants, which after all are mine, my roots.