I'm dead. Really dead. Not in the "there'll be a twist at the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead.
I'm not truly Welsh of course, being that my Great Grandfather's Mother's second husband was from Scotland. A secret shame that the Family has bourn quite well, considering. When questioned over my flame coloured Ginger hair, relatives successfully hinted at the local milk delivery representative as explanation. An obvious solution, except for the fact that her hair was clearly and obviously dyed, but there you go.
So, our family are what Cwm-yn-Canu locals would call "incomers", not having lived long enough in, what correct English would transcribe as "the Singing Valley"; Cwm = valley, Canu = to Sing. Harsher translators refer to as the town as the "Uncanny Valley" given that "yn-canu" has an uncanny familiarity for anyone who has had the pleasure to visit the place.
Dai the Death died, ironically, under what we thought at the time were suspicious circumstances for an Undertaker. When he burst into the Pub, swearing that one of his corpses had risen from the marble slate where he'd been resting quite comfortably "in State" and had seen fit to bite his funereal benefactor before succumbing to a second dose of rigour mortis, we all just put it down to sniffing the Formaldehyde one time too many.
It was only later that a subtle but completely ignored change came over the townspeople of Cwm-yn-Canu. Most people travelling through didn't seem to notice, however, and Unlife carried on with relatively few changes.