« Autumn, After All »
Autumn.
Fall.
The realest season of them all.
No bright beginnings, no loud parade
Just golden light, and skies that fade.
The trees undress.
The wind exhales.
The world gets quiet, soft, and pale.
You walk through leaves like whispered thought,
Like memories the summer forgot.
It’s the season of staying in.
Of wool socks, books, and porcelain.
Of rain that taps on window glass
And hours that don’t feel rushed to pass.
You don’t have to shine here.
You don’t have to bloom.
You can just be
A body in a warm, dim room.
We light a candle.
We let things go.
We learn the art of moving slow.
Not stuck. Not lost.
Just… still.
For once, we let the silence fill.
And Halloween?
That sacred game
Where masks reveal more than they claim.
Where even ghosts feel less alone.
Where shadows say: you’re not unknown.
See, in autumn…
You’re allowed to fall apart.
To feel the ache inside your heart.
To wear your layers, show your seams
And sleep beneath the weight of dreams.
The world gets dark.
But not in fear.
It just means night is drawing near.
And in that dusk, we start to see
The quiet truth: we’re finally free.
So let the others chase the sun.
Let them bloom and come undone.
I’ll be here
Where curtains fall.
In autumn.
Deepest truth of all.
Valentina
ROSSI SCHMID
103
