Page 18 of Until the Last Leaf Falls

The loneliest tree in the field is never truly lonely, read Orren’s message. Not even in thick fog.

First Sign of Autumn

Summer settled over the town, sultry and warm. The trees drowsed, leaves hanging limp until the evening breeze swirled the air trapped in the courtyard into eddies, and Niles turned a hose on his glade, a cooling soft spray rustling the canopies.

One morning, Celia arrived. Blonde, blue-eyed, and sturdy, she wore a sundress and sandals, and had her long hair gathered in a high ponytail. A little girl rode on her hip, a younger child sat in a buggy, and she poked her head round the library door as if spying on a forbidden space.

Niles waved her inside. “Come in, please. We’re open.”

“I know you’re doing the town history thing,” she began hesitantly, while Niles found an indestructible picture book for the littlest one, and pencils and paper for the older girl. The library had always had provisions for children, but until today, he’d never needed them.

“Come sit, have coffee.” He started a big mug of foamy cappuccino.

She sunk into the sofa and looked around. “This is a nice space.”

Where before he might have shrunk from the small talk, now Niles found it easy to smile at her. “Thank you. Were you looking for books or company?” And wasn’t that a strange question for him to ask?

“The town history project you’re doing… is it only for old people?” She hurried on. “I know I’m a nipper compared to Bob Gerland and co, but I’ve lived here all my life, too. When I was a teenager, they were adults or even retired. They didn’t see the town as I did.” She picked up her mug and took a sip. “I wondered if there might be space for younger people to share our memories. Don’t get me wrong, I like reading about the 50s and the 60s. But this is now, and the town hasn’t stopped changing.”

“You’re not wrong,” Niles said, thinking of the trees lost to the town’s modern growth spurts. “And of course you’re welcome. History isn’t generational.”

“Ha. Tell that to my teachers. Though I can only sneak an hour here or there,” she cautioned.

Once more, Niles shrugged. “You’ve a full-time job looking after two little ones. And this is a community project. We don’t have deadlines.” He spread his hands. “All that to say I’m grateful for any time you can spare.”

“No judgement? That’s refreshing. There’s also… like… a few of us. Mums, you know? We’ve been reading the site, and it made us dig up our own memories. But I’ll warn you now—not everyone is good with words. Spelling and grammar and such.”

“You don’t even have to write. Just talk into your phone and bring me the file. The tech can do the rest.”

“Honestly? You’re not shitt—” She clapped a hand over her mouth before the word was fully out.

“I’m really not. People bring their memories to share. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Her smile could have lit the room. “Well, if that’s your attitude… count us in.”

The next day, Celia and four of her friends arrived just after opening, buggies and kids in tow. Niles hauled in another table, set up a safe play area, and opened boxes of toys that had languished in his storeroom.

“We used to meet in the cafe in the market square,” Celia told him as everyone settled. “Only place available, really, unless we invade the park. But with all our kids, we always felt as if we were inconveniencing everybody. Here it’s just lovely.”

And it was. Bob’s friends mingled with the newcomers, and soon there were plenty of volunteers to keep eyes on the children while Celia and her friends took trips down memory lane. Within a week, Niles had added a swing and a seesaw to the glade and soon he felt almost bereft when the library had a slow day or it rained and nobody could go outside.

It was the best summer in Niles’s memory. The library was turning into the community hub he’d dreamed of, a place where old and young mingled and talked. The website accumulated memories, and Niles talked to trees and took books around the town.

Seeing one of his dreams take shape had dulled the constant, painful longing for Orren’s presence to an occasional twinge, most sharply felt when he was alone or amongst trees. He still dreamed of Orren’s return, but he no longer wished for time to pass faster.

When the first russet leaves appeared on the chestnuts in the park, the sight flummoxed him. It was only the end of August and the trees in his glade revelled in the beauty of their canopies. He set his book basket down, touched his palms to the chestnut’s trunk and listened to tales of fading light, rainy days, and the promise of winter. Nothing untoward, then. Just the march of the seasons, felt more keenly by the seniors in the park. When the chestnut gifted him one of its giant leaves, the very tips touched with autumn colour, he took it home and wrote a message for Orren.

The first sign of autumn. When will I see you?

He set the leaf in its usual place late that night and it was gone by morning, but however many times Niles checked and checked again, Orren didn’t reply.

They had no schedule for their communications and Orren’s messages had never come with complete regularity, but they’d always come sooner or later. Niles waited while the chestnuts in the park let their leaves turn russet. He kept waiting as the oaks and then the beeches caught the autumn vibe.

Until waiting—and worrying—took over much of his days.

Niles rose earlier and earlier and spent more time in his glade, even as the days grew shorter. His trees, in their protected courtyard, clung to their summer colours the longest. But even their change into autumn garb brought neither a word from Orren nor the sight of him.

The equinox passed.