The Leaves
By Jamie F. Bell
The autumn air outside Arnold's window hung heavy and damp, the last vestiges of daylight bleeding from a bruised sky. Inside, the quiet hum of the old house was broken only by the distant murmur of the television and the clink of ice in a forgotten glass. He sat, a man etched by time and solitude, observing the way the fading light played tricks on the browning leaves, a prelude to a chill that had nothing to do with the season.