Page 16 of Until the Last Leaf Falls

The empty expanse of the reception desk glowed golden in the overhead lights. A message from Orren would have been welcome right then, reassurance that he’d chosen the correct path. That he hadn’t misinterpreted Orren’s words and was causing harm.

But how could Orren judge his efforts if he knew nothing of them? Niles wanted to write Orren the kind of long, rambling letter his late aunt used to send him, keeping him apprised of the lives and loves of a whole village. Shame he was useless at that sort of thing. Technical reports were more his line. Besides, Orren never sent him more than a few words. Maybe only leaves could pass whatever barrier separated them.

He had collected the leaves his trees had shed, and he found the notebook that kept them safe and selected a maple leaf.

Thank you for giving me hope, he wrote. I can’t wait to see you again. Then he drew a tiny heart, never mind how silly it made him feel.

Niles left the leaf on the reception desk and settled at his workstation, where his computers hummed and his projects took shape. Many hours later, when he raised his head to contemplate the pearlescent grey of an early morning, the maple leaf had disappeared from the reception desk.

An autumn-hued rose had taken its place.

Remembered for Something

“You’re the tree chappy, yes? The one who collects local histories?”

Niles raised his head from his code-filled screen, surprised to find an older man standing in his library. He wore a leather jacket and T-shirt over baggy jeans and carried a shoebox.

Intrigued, Niles got to his feet and crossed the room. “I’m Niles,” he introduced himself. “And yes, I’m interested in history.”

The man clasped Niles’s hand and Niles felt calluses and a faint tremor. “I’m Bob Gerland.” Life had carved deep lines around his mouth but hadn’t erased the curiosity from his eyes.

“Please come and sit. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?” The familiar awkwardness tightened the muscles in Niles’s neck. He wasn’t used to people who said more than ‘Oh, I’m just browsing’ or ‘Can I wait here until the bus comes?’ His last real conversation had been with Orren and Orren had been gone since…

“I’ve been reading the website you built about the town’s history,” he said. “I know it says to come to the library to find out more, but I had to Google where you actually are. I didn’t realise the town even had a library and I’ve lived here all my life.”

Niles’s eyebrows shot up. He’d placed flyers all around town when he opened the library. The town council had publicised it on their website and had the details up on the town noticeboard. How was it that people still didn’t know?

“I bought this house six years ago,” Niles said, wondering if the reason he’d spent five years almost completely alone was something as mundane as miscommunication. “The library’s been open for five.”

“Really? Shows you how observant people are, doesn’t it? Myself included. Though I reckon I’ve seen you around town with a basket?”

“My book round, yes. For people who can’t make it into town and order their books on their library app.”

Bob’s gaze swept the shelves, the workspaces, and he nodded as if in answer to some internal monologue. Then he caught sight of the wall, and his eyes lit up. “Now that… is stunning.”

Niles wanted to turn off the compliment with a shrug. But painting the map of the town onto one wall of his library had taken him nearly two months. Not having painted in years, the first couple of weeks had left him sore and aching, with scuffed knuckles and streaming eyes. Then he’d settled into a rhythm, and the work had taken him through Christmas and well into the New Year. It had left him no time to dwell on his lack of family or even to cast longing glances at the couples strolling the town hand-in-hand on Valentine’s Day.

He’d worked and painted, studied Orren’s books, and talked to the trees. And the output was this, a map showing not just the town’s streets and houses, but also the trees—ancient, old, and those barely old enough to be awake.

He’d built a database for the stories the trees had shared with him, and off it a website filled with local history. As the weather had turned from grey, damp winter to mild, hesitantly sunny spring, he’d started placing signs beside the trees, each one detailing a quirky or unusual historical fact, with a QR code leading to the website.

He wasn’t even halfway around all the trees yet, but the website was getting a surprising number of hits and had brought him, seemingly, a library visitor.

“This is my latest project,” Niles explained. “I love the old trees and thought they deserved a chance to tell their story.”

It was as close as he dared to go to the truth, but Bob didn’t even blink. He stood in front of the mural, gnarled fingers lightly tracing the cobbled streets and wonky houses.

“There used to be a tree here,” he said, pointing to a bare space at the edge of the cattle market. “A huge oak with massive branches. You needed three or four people to reach around the trunk. During the hurricane—you know, the one that wasn’t in ’87—the oak got hit by lightning. The arborists who took it down said that if the tree hadn’t been there, the church would have gone up in flames because its lightning conductor was broken. And when the tree fell… It was the week of the fair. The cattle market was packed with booths and trailers and motorhomes. The oak crashed into the only empty space. Almost as if it knew.”

Niles listened with rapt attention, but at that point he roused himself. “Hang on a second,” he said, “I would really like to take notes.” He reached for his phone, but Bob stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“No need for that. You can have all of mine,” he said, and held up the shoebox. “I grew up in that street. Climbed the oak from when I was a nipper. I have photos my grandparents took.”

“Would you mind if I scanned them to add them to the website?”

“As I said, you may have them.” He hesitated. “I was wondering… do you maybe need help with the website? I’ve lived here all my life—I told you, right? I know a lot of people, but I don’t think I’ll see another spring after this one. I’m ill, you know, and old. I have no family, but I’d like to leave something behind. Be remembered for something I did?”

Niles had to swallow to get rid of the lump in his throat. Too many of Bob’s words chimed with him. But there was hope in his request, too, and Niles would be the last person to crush it.