Keep It The Same

Ernie dislikes change. He keeps to his routines—Tuesday Peel Slat at sunset, the same battered blue bowl, boots parked by the door—and trusts predictable comforts: a lodged scowl, a steady scuffle through the lane, Nira at his feet. New things unsettle him: sudden visits (apart from I Vey), rearranged furniture, or newfangled tools make his snout wrinkle and his step slow. He grumbles at council meetings about lane improvements and mutters when the market rearranges stalls. That stubbornness is part armor, part habit. It comes from pride in what he knows how to do well and a fear that change will take small joys. Still, he isn’t hard-hearted: he resists softly. He’ll grumble through a neighbor’s suggestion, tolerate a borrowed spice, and—if pressed by loyalty or need—adjust enough to help Nira, I Vey, or the village. Change that arrives gently (a promised ribbon, a fixed plank, a shared bowl) he can accept; abrupt change he meets with a long, suspicious puff of air and a slow, deliberate decision to try it once—then, maybe, twice.