She ran outside. There, at the tip of the old oak, one maple leaf had turned the color of honey.
Ellie stood at the edge of Maple Hill, watching the green canopy ripple in the August heat. She was waiting—waiting for the first rusted edge on a single leaf, the signal she’d been watching for every late summer since she was a child. fall which month
“September. He’s the one who brings fall, you know. October shows up with the fanfare—the pumpkins, the crisp air, the bonfires. November sulks in with grey skies and bare branches. But September? September slips in like a quiet carpenter, touching each leaf with a little gold, pulling the light a notch lower, reminding the world to breathe before the long dark.” She ran outside
That evening, as the sun dipped earlier than the day before, a breeze slid through the kitchen window. It carried the faintest scent of apples and smoke. Ellie looked at the calendar: September 1. She was waiting—waiting for the first rusted edge