A Quieter Autumn

The air didn't just feel crisp; it felt *clean*. Like someone had scrubbed the whole forest with a giant, fuzzy chamomile cloth. The blood-red moon, which had been glaring down like a particularly judgmental tomato, had finally decided to dim its lights, settling for a more respectable, if still slightly rosy, blush. It was the kind of glow that made you want to sip hot cider and contemplate the existential dread of a squirrel hoarding its nuts.

Leaves, bless their little leafy hearts, were finally doing their job properly. Instead of fluttering down in a panic or clinging on for dear life like they’d just heard a ghost story, they were performing a graceful, choreographed descent. Reds, oranges, and yellows pirouetted from the branches, carpeting the forest floor in a tapestry so vibrant it made my eyes water a little. My autumn magic, the kind that usually involved making squirrels do synchronized cartwheels and convincing stubborn acorns to sprout, was humming along nicely. It felt… normal. And after the whole spectral disco fiasco, normal felt like the most magical thing in the world.

“See? I told you it would all blow over,” Bartholomew said, his voice a low rumble from his spot on the mossy stump. He sounded terribly smug, which was his default setting. “Though, I maintain my theory that it was all the result of a cosmic indigestion.”