5 August 2027
Thursday. Six years today since the first night. I looked it up in the first logbook. Two plots, two pairs, one hug for the hoodie. Same as tonight, more or less.
The staff made a cake. Shaped like a coffin, chocolate, with a little shovel in icing on the lid. They had me hide it in the shed till the right moment, because nobody goes in my shed, and they passed round a card for everybody to sign. I wrote “Well done on the boxes, H.” It’s the most I’ve ever said to the man.
I never did see him eat any of it. Plate was empty by morning, though, and the card was gone.
Six years of the same two plots. I’ve met the people who built them, once. Carpenters and painters and the like, very serious about it, from a big workshop. They asked if the lids were holding up. I said they’re the best lids I’ve ever had to put back. They seemed pleased.
Tally: plots disturbed, two. Years, six. Cake, none left for me. Tuppence had icing on her whiskers. I make no accusations.
— H., groundskeeper
