Day 186

The caravan was supposed to be empty.
Seems the old owner hadn't left after all.
His corpse was still at the table, holding a mug of something
that had long since dried up.

His arm stiffly raised the mug to his shrivelled face and he
drew in a deep breath.

Old habits just don't die.

His sunken eyes drift out of the window and he gazes listlessly
at the others wandering about.
Like him, they were trapped in their habits.

They walked their dogs, well they pulled empty leashes along.
They took their children to school, though nobody had taught
there for almost fifty years.

The whole area was frozen like this.
None of them could rest.
They couldn't die.

Nobody left the area, they had no reason to.
Sometimes new people came, towing cameras and microphones.
They always stayed.
What reason did they have to go?

After all, habits are so easy to get into.

They drink in the pub that hasn't served anything for years.
They walk along the beach, among the remains of old fishing boats.
They film with equipment that has long since expired, just as they have.

The old man turns to face the living ones who are forming their habits.
He can't answer their questions.

He doesn't know why the area was declared unstable.
Everything was stable, everything was as it has always been
How it always will be.