A dry, desiccated leaf with the rough scrape of death fell on my left cheek, her soft auburn hair lay on the other. The window was open to the chill of October’s arrival and the autumnal breeze brought warnings of winter and falling leaves into her bedroom. Without words, her hand rose to my cheek and she held the brown leaf between her thumb and forefinger, twirling it in the pale moonlight that weaved its way through the tree’s branches outside. The leaves, caught in a whirlwind where the bedroom met the hall, scraped against the siding. She took the lonely leaf into her palm and slowly folded her fingers around it, eyes closed, smiling at the crunching sound.