The Last Leaves of Autumn

Autumn had painted the world in burnt oranges, mellow yellows, and deep browns. Leaves danced in the wind, floating down like tired dreams ready to rest. Soil, wood smoke, and something else—something melancholy—hung in the air. The kind of scent that reminded you of everything and nothing all at once.

Arvind was the name of the man. In his late seventies, with silver hair and a neatly kept mustache, he was the sort of figure children sometimes stared at and artists longed to sketch. There was something poetic about the way he sat there, as if he was listening to a voice only he could hear.

The bench wasn't just a bench. It was a diary, an altar, and a place to rest memories for Arvind. It was a doorway into another time. ---

### "A Season of Recollections" Forty years ago, this very bench had witnessed his first conversation with Maya. Maya was his wife, best friend, and the one who gave his world vivider colors than autumn ever could. It had been an October afternoon, just like this. Arvind, a young literature teacher at the time, was reading in the park. Maya had been caught in a sudden shower, standing beneath a tree, trying to protect her books. He had offered her his umbrella. That small act had bloomed into long conversations, shared silences, and eventually, a lifetime of togetherness.

They had sat on this bench through every season. During spring, they admired the blossoms. In the summer, they shared mango slices. Maya would also lean on his shoulder in the fall to watch the leaves fall, as though the trees were letting go of something old to make room for something new. Then, in the fall, Maya vanished. Cancer had stolen her away slowly, painfully. A wound that never fully healed was her absence. The bench, however, remained. And so did Arvind.

---

### **Conversations with Leaves**

A young girl ran up to Arvind one day as he sat and stared at the golden carpet of leaves. She was certainly not older than eight. Her hair was messy, and her eyes sparkled with questions.

“Are you a poet?” She asked at once. Arvind blinked in surprise. “No, little one. Not any longer. Maybe I was, once.”

“You talk like a poet,” she insisted, sitting beside him without waiting for permission. She flipped open a small notebook. "Can you compose a poem for me?" He smiled and picked up a leaf that was lying gently on the bench before moving on. “This leaf *is* a poem,” he said. “See how it left its tree, but it still dances in the wind?”

The girl’s laughter chimed like bells. That is stunning. By the way, my name is Tanisha. I draw.”

From that day, Tanisha became a part of his afternoons. She’d bring her sketches, he’d tell her stories. She inquired in the same way that only children do: "Why do leaves fall?" Why do people go away? What does love really mean?

Arvind didn’t always have answers. But he was always attentive. And at times, that was sufficient. ---

###, "The Letter," Then she vanished one day. neither the next. By the third day, Arvind’s heart grew heavy. He had lost too many people in life to not notice absence when it sat beside him.

He discovered a small envelope hidden beneath the bench that afternoon. The writing was childish and shaky. > **Dear Grandpa Arvind,**

>

> We suddenly had to leave for the village. Papa was hired there. >

> You were my favorite part of the city. You showed me that beautiful things can come from falling things like leaves. I will miss you. >

> One day, I’ll come back. Will you remain here? >

> Love,

> **Tanisha** Arvind held the letter to his chest. A tear slid down his cheek, not of sorrow, but of quiet gratitude. Maya had once told him, “Leave something behind in people’s hearts.” He hadn’t known if he ever truly had—until now.

---

### **The Return**

Seasons changed. Leaves fell, grew, and fell again. The park was filled with winter whispers. Springs bloomed in quiet hope. Arvind remained even as time passed. One year later, just as the trees began to shed once more, a voice called softly, “Grandpa Arvind?”

She was taller, older, and still possessed those same curious eyes when he turned slowly. In her hands was a fresh notebook, its cover decorated with painted leaves.

He mumbled, "You returned." She grinned, "You waited." They sat together again. She showed him her drawings—one of him, sitting on the bench, surrounded by swirling leaves.

She said hesitantly, "I wrote a poem for you." “Want to hear it?”

He nodded, eyes misty.

> **"The Bench Beneath the Tree"**

>

> There is a man sitting there holding stories, > With eyes that look like autumn sky and old, soft plans. >

> He talks about falling leaves and things, > However, according to them, the call of memory rises. >

> I was a girl who asked too much,

> And he replied with leaves and such.

>

> Even though I'm taller now, he's still there— > A bench, a breeze, and autumn air.

---

### **Final Autumn**

Arvind was older now. Slower. Some days he didn’t speak much. But Tanisha came often, sometimes with her little brother, sometimes with her mother.

She’d sit beside him quietly, as Maya once did. And together, they watched the leaves fall.

One afternoon, she came to find the bench empty. No coat, no scarf, no soft eyes watching the sky.

Arvind's old notebook, however, was neatly folded on the bench. A concluding message appeared on the first page: > **"I waited, and you returned.

> The bench is yours now.

> Fill it with stories." **

Tanisha sat down slowly, tears slipping down her cheeks. She opened her notebook. The wind sang and the leaves continued to fall. And somewhere, she was sure, Arvind was watching—perhaps sitting on another bench in another autumn.

---

### **Epilogue: Leaves That Never Die**

Autumn teaches us that endings can be beautiful. That to fall is not always to fail. And that memory, like leaves, can be carried on the wind, again and again.

Arvind is no longer there in body. But in every sketch Tanisha makes, in every poem she writes, in every question she dares to ask—he lives on.

And the bench waits. For another story. Another child. A different leaf. ---

Let me know if you'd like this in PDF format, with an illustration, or adapted into a short film script or blog post!