Summer doesn't come here, neither do spring and winter. The trees are always bare save for a few grey leaves and shrivelled, bitter fruit - shadows of what they should be. Everything here feels like a shadow of the life we see on our screens, just grey-toned and slow.
People here move out as soon as they are able to, sometimes they come back to visit us, whether that's out of misplaced guilt or a sickness from all the colour and life the rest of the world throws at them, we don't care. The land doesn't care, it welcomes us all back beneath its grey skies and cracked earth.
I don't think I've ever seen anything growing in the fields but the farmers are always saying the harvest is coming. I don't think they know what a harvest is, they're just saying what they think they should and hoping that the land agrees with them.
I don't think I've ever seen a live cow before either. The only things grazing in the fields are ghosts. At least, I think they're ghosts. They look like ghosts - vague whiteish shapes that get easily lost in the fog, shapes that moves through trees, hedges and buildings like they were never there, shapes that were here long before our homes and will be here long after we're gone.
The only difference between the grazers and ghosts is that the grazers can be killed but their meat tastes like water, burns in a split-second and rots so quickly that your best chance at making a meal of them is eating straight from the kill.The less time you leave between death and dinner, the better the taste.
Maybe we're just like them - little grey things wandering around a land that doesn't care enough to let us die.
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