US Edition There are people going through their daily routines: dropping into the Post Office, or picking up a carton of milk.
But if you linger in the town, it starts to tell a different story.
The man in the Post Office has lost his home in the worst bush fires in Australian history. He has come into town to collect mail destined for an address that no longer exists. The first envelope he opens is a bill, he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.
In the car park outside an old Ford Fairlaine nudges the kerb, its bumper, grill and licence plate almost completely melted off – a sign that its owners escaped the inferno just in time.
Off the main road lie acres of charred hillsides.
The massive Kinglake fire that would eventually claim 142 lives passed through Wandong on its fearsome progression into the mountains. Four of the town's residents are now dead and scores of homes have been reduced to piles of ash, the odd blackened wall still standing.
Around a corner, perched on a hill, is the remains of one home. Its roof has fallen in. There are no doors or windows. The metal garage door has melted in. Glass, gutters and shattered tiles are scattered inside and out. An orchard that had surrounded the house is barely recognisable. The exploded remains of an oven lie in the driveway.
Drago Kovacic, 74, built the property with his bare hands.
He and his wife had lived on the Wandong hillside for 29 years.
Mr Kovacic was so distressed at the sight of the house that he could hardly speak.
"I'm heartbroken," was all he could manage, wiping his eyes.
His son, Vlado, attempted to evacuate his parents on Black Saturday, when fire suddenly engulfed the region, but was held back by the flames.
"You get complacent, you think it will never happen to me, on the day I told them to get out, they left it at the last minute and went to my sister's," he said.
"We went to Bendigo and then the fires started there, we couldn't escape them on the day, they were everywhere."
Mr and Mrs Kovacic are retired and rely on a state pension. Their home was not insured.
"We're just devastated," Vlado said. "It's their whole life, this was their dream, everything they worked for."
Further up the road, another home was reduced to rubble and abandoned. Its roof had gone and three walls remained but the floor was missing.
A warped bathtub lies in what must have been the bathroom. The metal frame of a sofa sits in a twisted heap. A television, fridge and oven have been scattered like pinballs.
Then there is the wind, raging with such ferocity that it is hard to hear anything else. Ash and dust fly everywhere. Burned tree trunks bend and creek. Everything smells of burning.