Rhys hated that there were always other people there. They littered the place, worse than the food wrappers, tickets and plastic bags they brought with them; they were lichen, clinging to everything and wearing it down. As the days grew longer in the spring, and he had more daylight in which to make his observations, so the number of people waxed too (although, even at the winter solstice, a dark and grim scrap of a festival, he could never find himself alone). In short, he wanted them all to go home or die, or to disappear somehow and never have been.
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