The Maple’s Memory

I wandered into a forest that glowed with autumn’s colors – deep gold, amber, and the burning red of maples all around. Leaves carpeted the ground underfoot, making every step a gentle invitation to pause. The air held a faint chill, enough to make my breath visible and heighten the warmth of my woolen scarf. The sun drifted low, sending dusty rays through tall branches.

As I moved deeper, the woods whispered with crickets and the distant tap of a woodpecker. At a clearing, I found an ancient maple tree, its trunk split and rough, but its crown ablaze with scarlet leaves. Beneath it sat a quiet old woman in a faded coat, filling small baskets with leaves sorted by color. She welcomed me wordlessly, offering a seat beside her on a fallen log.

We spent the afternoon gathering leaves, each one a piece of the season’s memory. She told me of autumns past, how the forest changed shape year by year and how children once danced in piles of leaves, wild and free. She held up a leaf, veined and brittle, saying, “Every leaf shadows a story. Even as it falls, it keeps a memory of the sun and rain it knew.”

We built a little mosaic from our bounty on the log, watching the wind scatter some away and leave others untouched. When dusk pressed in, she folded her coat tight, handed me a golden maple leaf, and smiled. I wandered homeward, the forest glowing behind me. In the pocket of my jacket, the leaf remained – a small, bright memory, pressed between the season’s quiet ends and new beginnings.