Autumn Fall Spring «Premium»

He came back to the bench every day anyway. He brought a thermos of tea and two cups—one for him, one for the tree’s roots. He read Lena’s favorite poems aloud, his voice thin as old paper. And he waited.

The tree was dying.

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?” autumn fall spring