THE LAST LEAF

In a quiet corner of old Greenwich Village, where ivy crept up the cracked brick walls and the fog hung low between narrow streets, lived two young artists—Sue and Johnsy. They had met in a summer art class and bonded over their dreams of painting something that mattered.

They shared a modest studio apartment with high windows and low heat. The creaky floorboards complained every time they paced in thought, and the leaky radiator hissed like a disapproving old cat. But they loved it—it was theirs.

One autumn, a bitter wind arrived early. Along with it came illness. Johnsy, the quieter of the two, was struck by pneumonia. The doctor visited, left a bottle of medicine, and a warning in his heavy voice: “She must want to live. Medicine can only do so much.”

Johnsy didn’t want to live.

She lay still under layers of quilts, staring out the frosty window at the vine on the wall of the adjacent building. It was an old ivy vine, once lush and green, now shedding its leaves with every gust of wind.

Sue worked quietly, sketching and glancing over at Johnsy every few minutes. One afternoon, she noticed Johnsy murmuring numbers.

“Ten,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the vine.

“What’s ten?” Sue asked, pausing her sketch.

“Ten leaves left,” Johnsy replied. “When the last one falls, I’ll go too.”

Sue stood frozen, brush midair. “That’s nonsense, Johnsy. Leaves fall. That’s what they do.”

Johnsy only blinked slowly and turned her face away.

That evening, Sue visited the floor below to see Behrman, an old, grumpy artist who had never painted his masterpiece. He smelled of turpentine and pipe smoke and always grumbled about “foine art.”

“She’s counting the leaves,” Sue told him, voice tight. “She’s convinced the last one will take her with it.”

Behrman didn’t answer right away. He simply lit his pipe and stared out the window. Outside, the wind howled, and rain began to fall.

“I vill come,” he said finally, setting down his pipe.

That night, the storm raged. Rain lashed against the windowpanes, and the wind clawed at the ivy vine. Sue closed the curtains tight and tried to sleep. Downstairs, Behrman put on his old coat, picked up his paints and brushes, and stepped out into the night.

Morning came, pale and gray. Sue awoke to silence, then rushed to the window. Johnsy was already awake, staring at the wall.

“It’s still there,” she whispered.

“What is?”

“The last leaf. It didn’t fall.”

Sure enough, one lonely, green leaf clung to the vine. It was a miracle.

That day, Johnsy asked for some broth. Then she asked Sue to move her easel closer. The next morning, she asked for her sketchbook. Slowly, day by day, Johnsy began to heal.

Two days later, the doctor nodded in approval. “She’ll recover now. Her will’s returned.”

Sue hugged her friend and, with a full heart, ran downstairs to tell Behrman the good news. But Behrman had fallen ill. Pneumonia had taken him quickly after the stormy night.

They found his soaked coat and muddy boots in his studio. On the floor was a small ladder, splattered with green and yellow paint. Nearby lay his final canvas—a leaf, painted with such realism it fooled the wind and gave hope to a dying girl.

Behrman had painted his masterpiece—not on canvas, but on the wall outside Johnsy’s window.

In the last leaf, there was more than paint. There was the weight of sacrifice, the stroke of kindness, and the color of hope that never fades—even when all else seems lost. aa