The Sound of Leaves Falling

There’s something magical about autumn.

Not the kind that lives in Instagram filters or pumpkin spice lattes, but the kind you feel in your bones when the wind carries a whisper you almost understand.

Asha sat on the old wooden bench beneath the maple tree outside the retirement home, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on her tea cup. Every day for the past six weeks, she came here at 4 PM, always alone, always silent. The nurses knew better than to disturb her. Even the other residents, chatty and eager for visitors, gave her space.

Today, though, a stranger sat on the other end of the bench.

He was young, probably early thirties, with a sketchpad resting on his knees and charcoal-stained fingers. His presence was quiet, respectful, but undeniable.

Asha glanced sideways.

“You picked the wrong tree,” she said softly, voice like wind through dry leaves. “That one over there has better light.”

The artist smiled, not looking up. “I’m not here for the tree. I’m here for the story.”

She blinked. “What story?”

He turned a page, began sketching again. “Yours.”

She chuckled, a sound of surprise and something close to warmth. “And what makes you think I have a story?”

He shrugged. “Everyone who sits alone like that has a story. It’s just waiting to be told.”

Anna looked down at her tea. Steam still curled from the lid.

“I lost my son here,” she said after a moment.

The artist paused, not in pity, but attention. “I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t die,” she added quickly. “He just… stopped visiting. Two years ago.”

Silence.

“I used to count on the calendar. First missed call, first missed holiday. Now, I don’t mark anything. It hurts less when you expect nothing.”

The artist nodded. “My mom stopped talking to me after I chose art school instead of law. Haven’t seen her in five years.”

Asha tilted her head. “That’s different.”

“Maybe. But the ache is the same.”

She studied him. His sketchpad faced away, but she imagined it was already full of truth.

“You think drawing makes it better?”

“No,” he said, “but it makes it bearable.”

For the first time, Asha looked directly at him. “Why come here?”

“I read once that the elderly hold forgotten libraries in their minds. I guess I’m looking for books no one checks out anymore.”

Asha smiled. “You’re a romantic.”

“I’m a realist who needs hope to survive.”

She thought about that, then said, “My son’s name is Akram.”

He didn’t write it down, but she knew he remembered.

“When he was a boy, he used to climb this tree. Scared the life out of me. One time, he stayed up there for an hour just to see if I’d panic. I did, of course. He laughed until he cried.”

The artist smiled.

“Years later, when his father died, he came back from college and sat here with me. Didn’t say a word. Just sat. We watched the leaves fall.”

She paused. “That was the last time he looked at me like I mattered.”

A gust of wind stirred a swirl of red and gold around them.

The artist gently turned his sketchpad toward her. It was a drawing of the maple tree, her on one side of the bench, and him on the other—both quiet, both present.

“It’s not finished,” he said. “I was waiting for the heart of it.”

Asha stared at the image, surprised by how much of herself she recognized.

“I don’t know if he’ll ever come back,” she whispered.

“I don’t either,” the artist said. “But until then, maybe you can tell your story to someone who’ll listen.”

She looked at him again. “You’re not just here for the drawing.”

“No,” he said. “I’m here because sometimes the silence between people is louder than any conversation. And because… maybe stories don’t have to end the way we expect.”

They sat together for a while longer, watching leaves fall like old memories.

When Asha finally stood, she said, “Same time tomorrow?”

He nodded.

As she walked back to her room, her heart felt lighter—not healed, but seen.

And somewhere, deep within the sound of the wind, she thought she heard her son's laughter again.