Autumn Fall Spring _top_ Jun 2026

Lena had loved autumn best. She called it the “brave season”—the time when things let go, not because they were weak, but because they trusted what came next. She had pressed maple leaves into every book she owned. On their last good day together, she had made Emory promise her one thing.

He sat on the same bench in the same park every afternoon, a wool blanket over his knees even when the sun was kind. The bench faced a single, enormous maple tree—a sprawling thing with bark like cracked leather and branches that seemed to hold up the sky. Emory didn’t read or listen to music. He just watched the tree. autumn fall spring

When the first cool wind of September tugged at his collar, Emory would lean forward, elbows on his knees, and whisper to the maple: “Ready?” Lena had loved autumn best