The Last[ing] Impression of Reuben Bachman - The last chapter by Michael Luciano,

Reuben Bachman could now be measured in accomplishments by his small backpack, which only carried some clothes for when winter’s chill became too much, a few letters he wrote for if he ever did find the strength to say what he meant to the people he had tried to forget, and few gray hairs of wisdom. He often blamed his bare scalp on his having been spread thin with attachment for so many years, so thin that he wouldn’t have been tasted if spread across toast. Now he had no worries about being spread thin, for he sat thickly all day. Bachman became very disappointed in himself, not for having nowhere to stay other than a small-town church, but because no one else ever was disappointed with him—even his family, who he hadn’t seen in years, never held high expectations of him.

Reuben sat on the steps of the church. In a late month of the year, the quaint town held the bitter chill of night through all hours of the day. The warmest of those chilled hours were in the afternoon, and he was always sure to make his way to the steps for those few hours before darkness.
A love for autumn is one of the few things about Reuben that had never changed. He found a contagion of hope that rose to the air while the leaves fell to the ground. As he looked out across the patchy-grassed yard before the street, he could feel the approaching winter’s chill in his lungs. His chest ached. Soon he’d not be able to spend these hours outside—not comfortably.
Though night was approaching and his body had lost its comfort to a numb chill, he stared off at a scattering of leaves. Occasionally his concentration was broken by a car on the street, always just passing by. What Reuben saw was a blotch of shades—all coming together to be one large figure—hiding the mottled ground from the sky. There was silence, except for winds playing through the trees like a bow whispering melancholy against strings. The trees clamored in a cursive-like continuity for the struggle to come to an end.
As the wind took the leaves, they were lifted to flight. Reuben, short on breath, was in awe at the leaves willingness to go with the wind, just to settle for the ground once again. Everything around him was becoming difficult to grasp. He felt light-headed and broke into a sweat.
Reuben closed his eyes to gather himself, opening them to find that he was now lying with his shoulder pressed against the frosted steps. All chills had passed and all that was left was an aching discomfort throughout. He forgot about his own troubles and looked out to the leaves in the wind. They scraped the ground and came to rest, just as before. But now, one leaf interrupted the ground’s surface with a revealing of its reverse—a much more distinct shade blemished the complexion of the assemblage.
When Reuben put together what had happened he had seen enough. He took his hand from his chest, let it rest at his side, and closed his eyes.