"I don't wanna go. I don't wanna go..."

"But you have to. You know you can't stay. Your time is done."

"I... I know... But... just a little while longer. Please."

He always did this. I should be used to it after so long, but it still tugs at the strings of the heart I once had. Well, I do still have it, but it's in a box, locked away with the others'. If it still beat in my chest, it would be sad. Could hearts feel emotion? I believe so. They're theologically the centre of our being so, surely, that must mean they encompass all we are.

Well, that's what I think, anyway.

So, yeah. This wasn't the first time he'd uttered these words, or versions of them. Though his face might change, the emotions are charged in the same way, and the I can hear my heart respond with a stuttered thud.

I should be immune. Numb to it. Not unfeeling, because even those who profess to be lie to themselves, but unheeding. The joy of a birthday can wane when you've had seventy. The cry of a newborn can become annoyance after the first few sleepless nights. The repeated pleadings of him should have lost their power.

They haven't.

Every year for as long as I can remember – far too long, with an eternity still to come – this has been the routine. The time comes for change. For goodbyes. At the Autumnal Equinox, the change must come.

Summer must leave for me to take my place.

But he doesn't want to. I suppose I can understand it. I don't like to leave either. I enjoy my time here, feeling free amongst the world's populace. Some think it's a time of decay. Leaves fall to be crushed underfoot, left to decompose. Those same 'some' let that seep into their bones, causing the degeneration of their own spirits.

They are wrong. Autumn is the period for reflection. It's a pause before the end of the year, when Summer has waned and Winter is waiting.

Autumn, personified in me, refuels the world and that must be initiated by Summer's absence.

So, when he pleads to remain, I must stand strong. There is no place for Summer when my time has come. There never has been. Thus, each year, I ensure he – or she, depending on how they present themselves to me – must be removed.

For that, I turn to my American name. Fall. Leaves fall, as I have said. So does my knife.

It cuts Summer's throat easily – why do they insist that's not their name, as if I could be fooled - but I have spent these past months honing the blade so its edge is at its keenest. He was about to say something, questioning why I wouldn't just let him go. He wouldn't say anything. He wouldn't tell anyone.

But they all say that. I wish I could believe them. I really do. Unfortunately, it would make no difference. For me to be unleashed, Summer must die.

I don't wait for him to stop gurgling before I cut into his chest. The box is ready. It is eager, almost, to be filled and placed amongst its brethren.

Once that is done, I can be about my important business.

It's my time, my time, now.

Time for the people to fall.