October 12, a crisp morning. The leaves spoke of change, but my feet found comfort on familiar paths. I passed an oak, its arms sheltering restless squirrels. I often wonder if they ponder existential thoughts as they chase one another...
In a quiet café, the kind where whispers cling to the walls, I overheard snippets of strangers' lives. Two friends planned a trip, their laughter melodic, notes of freedom carried on the wind. I finished my page, my companion, a half-finished cup of chamomile.
A walk by the riverside revealed a slow dance of autumn leaves. They twirled, caught in a gentle breeze, their descent a graceful surrender. Do they miss the branch they once called home, or is the journey itself their greatest joy?