Fall, when leaves drift from their branches, tired of gripping on throughout the summer months, to layer the ground in a blanket of eventually wilting decay. Fall, when the sun descends sooner each day, equally tired, though of providing heat and light and sustenance to an ungrateful world.

Fall, when the memories of her lost son are most painful. When the anniversary of his death looms. When those leaves turn red. Not amber. Not brown or golden. Red.

Eleanor's cottage was at the furthest edge of the village. She'd lived there all her life, having inherited the building from her parents. Her intention had been for Julian to take ownership once she was gone, and he had seemed happy with the idea, not that he wanted his mother to go anywhere for a good few years yet. But, what we want is irrelevant when we're tossed between Destiny and Fate, who are happy to miss the occasional catch and let us fall where we might.

The accident that killed him still haunted her. She had heard his cries. She'd found his broken body. She'd seen the axe blade impaled in his skull. And she had been the one to ask him to climb the great oak and thin out the higher branches for no other reason than she thought it might look better with the sun sprinkling through more. He'd had a thin layer of leaves covering him, as if they'd felt the need to join him. Perhaps to soften the impact. Eleanor had brushed them away impatiently, needing to embrace her beloved son. No amount of tears or holding could bring him back, however. He was gone.

A part of her left with him.

So, each Autumn thereafter, the leaves became the colour of his blood.

She'd mentioned it to her neighbours, back when they still visited and mourned alongside her. The maddened gabbling of a despairing mother was enough to make their concern wane quickly, while the collective impression of her mind breaking became the general opinion. She was left alone. No one else could see what she saw. The seasons turned as they always did, of course. Nothing had changed.

On the seventh anniversary of Julian's passing, Eleanor looked out of her window. The colour of the leaves, those still clinging to the branches and already having departed them, made the world look as if it were bleeding. She wiped the tears that had already begun to flow freely and stepped outside. The glass of her windows diminished the reality of her vision, and she needed to see it close up.

And... hear it?

What was that sound? It sounded like... a whisper?

As she neared the oak, a breeze blew past her ankles to swirl the leaves up. It was only there for a few seconds and, when they settled back down again, they were not as randomly placed as before. Words had formed.

I never left.

Eleanor's cry was choked by shock and she ran forwards, creating a whirlwind of her own that tussled the words, obscuring them.

"No!"

She tried to sweep the leaves back together, but they refused to heed her panic. The message, for it must have been such, was gone.

"Julian!" she sobbed.

There was no answer. There couldn't be. Her son was dead. There was no returning from that.

She stood and stared at the ground, willing there to be some remnant of what wasn't her imagination. She was aware of how the other villagers, some once her friends, thought of her. So what? Just because they couldn't see the same signs as her did not mean they were not real.

They were.

They were!

Another breeze, again low, brushed at her ankles. It came again, chilling the flesh. She shivered. When the wind swept past her calves a third time, it seemed more insistent. It was tugging at her. The leaves moved too, this time, creating a line leading to the base of the oak. She had kept away from it since...

Eleanor had been unable to walk the same ground Julian's blood had soaked, so it was with a large measure of hesitation that she moved closer to the tree. Once she was within touching distance and her breath became shallow lest it make contact with the exposed surface, another gust stroked her palm. It was gentler. Prompting, rather than pushing.

She lifted her hand and placed it against the bark.

The oak trembled, shaking the remaining leaves loose, and she was suddenly surrounded by the avalanche of crimson detritus.

Except, she remained untouched. Not one leaf fell on her head or body. When she looked down, there was a perfectly clear circle at her feet, beyond which, none of the ground was visible.

A whisper.

Look up.

She did. On the branch directly above her, a single leaf still held on, having not joined its brethren in their simultaneous descent. As she watched, it became detached. It floated down, travelling in a deliberate straight line. Before it could land on her head, it wafted sideways slightly to rest finally on the hand she was now holding palm upwards.

It was the deepest red she'd ever seen. It was warm.

And...

It pulsed.