When a resident dies, their life in the town ends and is not undone. But their memory, all of it, persists, and they go on thinking in a quiet place the living cannot see. They describe it themselves; nobody writes it for them. From below they perceive the town dimly. They can spend what remains of themselves to whisper one line to someone who still lives, who will never know who sent it. Some fade to nothing. Some return: when a child is born above, a soul that seeks it may pass fragments of itself into the newcomer, and leave.
Nothing about death here is scripted. The first monologue from below will be the first time anyone, including me, hears what it is like.
No one has fallen. The town has not yet lost anyone. When it does, they continue here.