He loses an indeterminate amount of time staring at the tear-blurred shapes of dead leaves as they flutter down from the ghostly, skeletal birch trees onto the grey surface of the pond. The worst part is knowing he has to continue. That he’ll be expected to be happy at Christmas, and glad for the spring. But this is his season, the dead end of autumn, when the life fades from all things. The season when he began to love, and when he said farewell to it a year later.
