It's Tuesday again.

I remembered just in time, that it was a day like the ones that come every week, tick-tapping along the wall and stumbling over the cracks in the sidewalk.

--

There's moss growing beside the planter now, and no one has watered the tulips in a while -- they've all gone brown and dried up. It's okay, they're the kind of plants that sleep instead of dying for good. They'll be back next year, the rain's enough, usually, even if no one comes.

The roses are all dead, though, just thorny sticks in the ground. They never liked being where they were, always sickly and infested, with yellowed leaves and puny blooms, but it's still a bit sad to see them like that. Maybe their fairies were able to move on to new plants. I hope so, anyway. I always hope that, even when I can hear the spirits of the trees moaning quietly and I know it's not true.

There are some places where the plants take over when people stop coming. Most places, speaking truly, are like that. Give a street six months with no tires and no footsteps and you'll see grass coming through the asphalt and dandelion clocks flying through the air. A year, and you'll see trees breaking through.

Here, though, once we stopped living, nothing else wanted to come replace us.