Autumn came six weeks later.
I drove back to Silver Oak Street.
Arthur’s house was gone.
The workshop had been replaced by a narrow apartment building.
The bicycle rack had disappeared.
Only the maple tree remained.
I sat beneath it with Carl’s old novel resting on my lap.
When I opened the book, the pressed leaf loosened and drifted onto my knees.
For years, Carl had returned to those pages whenever life made him doubt whether kindness mattered.
What he remembered was one ordinary afternoon.
A girl talking about a kitten.
A red leaf tucked inside a book.
Nothing heroic.
Nothing I had even remembered.
Yet it became his compass.
I placed one hand over the leaf.
“You spent your whole life thanking me for something I never knew I gave you.”
The branches moved above me.
Red leaves crossed the sky like small, bright letters.
For a moment, I considered placing Carl’s leaf back inside the novel.
