The Last Leaf

By; Abdur-Rahman

The city had been weeping for a week, a constant, grey drizzle that matched the chill in my bones. From my window, the world was a watercolor painting left in the rain, all blurred edges and muted tones. The doctor’s words were the final brushstroke: *Pneumonia. A matter of time.* My will to fight was leaching away, drop by drop, with the rain on the glass.

My only view was a grimy brick wall and the ancient ivy conquering it. Once a lush green tapestry, autumn had set it ablaze in gold and russet, only for the rain to extinguish it, leaf by falling leaf.

“They’re soldiers,” a voice grumbled from the doorway. Old Mr. Hemlock, my neighbor, stood with two mugs of tea. A painter, he was a man etched with the lines of countless forgotten mornings, his hands permanently stained with the ghosts of his art. “The last ones always hold the line the longest.”

I accepted the mug. “There are no stubborn leaves. Only stubborn gravity.”

He just hummed, his eyes on the vine. “We’ll see.”

As my strength waned, I made a morbid game of it. I would go, I decided, when the last leaf fell. A gust of wind would tear a dozen away, and I’d feel my own spirit loosen its grip. *Soon,* I’d think.

Then the real storm came. It wasn't rain; it was a fury. The wind screamed around the building, shaking the very windows. It was a night for endings. I couldn’t bear to watch, certain my final fellow soldier would be ripped away in the dark.

The next morning was unnervingly calm. Sunlight, sharp and clean, poured into the room. I was afraid to look, to see the bare, skeletal branches that would signal my own end.

I forced my eyes open.

The ivy was ravaged. Stripped bare.

Except for one.

A single, heart-shaped leaf, the colour of deep wine, clung to a stem halfway up the wall. utterly alone, defiant against the brilliant blue sky. It shivered in the breeze, a tiny, brave flag.

A sob caught in my throat. It was absurd. Illogical. But if that one tiny thing could hold on against the entire night’s fury, then so could I. For one more day.

That leaf became my reason. I ate a little. I slept a little less. The crushing weight on my chest felt… lighter. A week passed, and the leaf still held. My fever broke.

The doctor came, his prognosis shifting from pity to genuine confusion. “It’s remarkable,” he said. “A real turnaround.”

After he left, a sudden, cold fear seized me. I had to see it. I had to be sure my talisman was still there.

A breeze blew, but the crimson leaf didn’t flutter. It was perfectly, unnaturally still.

I leaned closer, squinting. And then I saw it. The faintest outline, a barely-there ridge against the brick. A tiny drip of color frozen in place near the stem.

My heart hammered. I pushed myself up, moving for the first time in weeks, and stumbled to Mr. Hemlock’s apartment.

His door was unlocked. He was in bed, buried under blankets, his breathing a shallow rasp. On his nightstand, a palette was smeared with the last of a beautiful, courageous crimson. His brushes sat in a jar of murky water.

He opened his eyes, weak but clear.

“It stayed,” I whispered, my voice thick with tears.

A faint smile touched his chapped lips. “Of course it did,” he rasped. “It’s not that kind of leaf.”

The last leaf did not fall. It was a different kind of life altogether. It was a promise, painted in the storm by cold, tired hands that decided one life was worth more than a blank brick wall. It was the greatest masterpiece I would ever see.