Inside a wall

I've never been outside the wall. I was born in here, in the home my parents chose. The world was too broken for them, as strife and disease spread through the land. They and about a hundred friends bought a series of old farms, and we control the whole valley. The quarry provided rock for the walls, a few acres of solar panels provide power, and we grow the rest of what we need here.

I know practically every inch of our home, and every human inhabitant. All of the gardens, the places in the wall where the rock changes, the inventory in the warehouses, the books in the library. Everyone sees everything, inside of our wall.

When I was a child there were strange birds in the sky - fixed wings, leaving behind a line of white, usually, and sometimes noisy creatures that hovered and floated through the sky. We haven't seen any of those in ten years or so, which has made my parents relieved. The wall mostly defends itself, but we'd prefer that no one look in on our home.

They might want to join us - but we're at capacity. They might bring the germs and violence of the old world into our new world. It's better that we stay here, and they stay there.