The swirling leaves blow around her as she steps lightly on the loose earth. The gentle crunch of the fiery carpet softens the dull thud of her boots on the ground, and she digs her heels in, feeling the pressure of the soil. in her hand she grasps a photograph, faded with age and charred at the edges.
the swirling leaves circle her, an inferno of colour, and the stream of reds and yellows are a wall of heat and fire. Their papery texture lands on her frozen skin, and she brushes it off, unfeeling.
she begins to run, branches like skeletal fingers slapping her as she runs through the trees. She doesn't stop until one of the scrawny limbs rips the paper from her hand. She cries out, scrabbling in the dirt. Eventually she lies in the bed of leaves, her eyes weeping and her heart in the depths of despair...
... After a long time, she slowly stood, her back stooped as of an old woman. She straightened up and loped out of the woods.
the photo would never be forgotten, but it was time to move on. And as the Autumn turned to winter, the printed paper will be buried under snow.
Autumn is the time of grief. Winter is for a new age.
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