You stroll home, the warm air turning bitter, just a little, just enough to force you indoors. The sky melts into the darkness on a cold autumn evening. You open your front door, keys clattering on the kitchen counter, boots thudding on the floor. A piercing whistle from the stove, the tinker of ceramic on the counter, the pouring of hot water into your mug, steam fogging up your glasses. You take your cup of tea and sit by the windowsill, watching the sky turn black, your reflection in the window becoming more and more visible. It’s in this quiet moment that you can hear yourself think.
The past is a dream. A story we tell ourselves to save us from heartbreak, from grief. When the trees lose their life, scattering their burnt orange leaves across the ground below, we remember. There is loss in life. There is always loss. None of this is permanent. But all of it is beautiful.
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