- AUTUMN -

The crusty leaves roll against the grey ground in unison, each one of them silently mourning for their lost green and indulgent texture. It's the time of the year where nature starts to fall, descend from their festive days and let the worn colours cascade over their lives instead.

Dead and broken leaves. That's what the once explosively green leaves were while the tree branches still had their secure and devoted grip on them. How easily they let them fall now, they've been betrayed.

Black boots hug my feet, its laces tied twice just in case. The only thing that keeps me warm is the faded grey beanie that covers the top of my head while the rest of my body feebly shivers due to the occasional gusts of hefty wind. It's been a few days since I've lost my leather jacket and it just so happened to be the only jacket I owned. Now all I had to comfort me from England's unpredictably depressing weather was a skimpy army green hoodie. And even that had too much colour for my liking.

The spray paint bottle rattles as I shake it up in my hand, its small noise growing as it echoes through the tattooed tunnel. Eyes restless, they search for the perfect bare spot that's waiting to be vandalised in such a way that the outcome shall turn into an extraordinary art piece. At least that's the outcome I wanted.

Sometimes the idea or inspiration in my head would run away like a mischievous child and never return, leaving my helpless hand frozen in place while I would stare at the unfinished graffiti.

So, this time, I hope that it doesn't leave. With the idea in my head, the one that had been burning through my thoughts all night until it motivated me to get out of my bed at three in the morning to walk all the way down the edgy tunnels of the city. Where art was so vivid that its beauty could be literally breathed in and while other people would scowl at it, most would appreciate it instead.

Using the black paint first, I draw the outline carefully, moving my wrist to get all the right curves that form the exclusive structure. It's harder than I thought, but the inspiration and image thankfully stays engraved enough in my mind that I keep going.

When it's done, I set the spray can down and turn my head from side to side to check whether there's anyone nearby. It would be pretty bad if my Aunt got a call from the police at 3am about me in trouble again.

I admire the drawing for a while, both impressed and disappointed with myself. It's what I wanted but it's not what it should be. Glancing down, my eyes land on my bag of spray cans, staring at all the untouched ones that contain other colours. All the lively, perky and enthusiastic colours that never usually cross my mind during the day or night.

But today in particular there's one colour that screams at me.

Crouching down, my hand digs into the bag and my fingers curl around the cool steel of the can. As I pull it out, I start to shake it and furrow my eyebrows while I examine the outline. Making a final decision, I press the top of the can and the volatile red bursts out to stain the pale wall. Cautiously, I make sure to get it inside of the black lines, filling up as if it's my very own colouring book but this time I'm not a reckless toddler that doesn't stay inside the lines.

It takes longer than I thought but I don't regret drawing it so big. The can almost runs out of paint before I can finish filling it in, but I just manage to.

Blowing out a breath, the can hangs loose in my aching hand and I stare with broad and focused eyes at my drawing. It truly did look like an art piece and surprisingly better than I hoped for. It's bizarrely beautiful. Just like her.

A drawing of a detailed and complex red rose is now on the wall in the middle of the tunnel, the brightest and biggest drawing there is that it by far stands out from all the others. I weirdly feel incredibly proud of myself. I've never had much art skills and certainly never put any effort into my work for the art lessons in school. But this, damn, it makes me feel worthy somehow.

The complex lines are for her irrefutably unique personality. The rose is for the significance of her beautiful name. And the bright red is for the colour that she paints my black heart with.

A small smile curls my lips and my mouth doesn't feel as stiff as usual whenever I force a smile. This one is genuine, it's meaningful. I truly have something to smile about.

A sound brings my ears to attention and my head whips in the direction of it. At 3am, any sound to be heard in a dim tunnel would be terrifying. But this seems to be just the opposite. Probably the most soothing sound I've heard all my life.

Instead of a grimace spreading across my face in confusion or annoyance, my eyes stay wide and lips slightly parted as I inquisitively listen as close as possible. It sounds like a voice singing, a gentle, feminine and melodic voice. That along with soft guitar playing in the background, but the voice stands out the most.

It strikes me clueless why anyone would be singing at this hour. You'd get homeless people trying to make money all the time by singing on the street or just people who wanted to share their music with the world, whether people were listening or not. But whoever was singing now definitely didn't care if anyone was listening. Simply because there was no one near this tunnel except for me and the person singing.

Without thinking, I let my feet carry me slowly, one step at a time as I get closer and closer to the soulful yet irreplaceable voice. My ears feel blessed and my heart full of satisfaction the clearer the voice becomes. It feels like feathers tickling my ear lobes and warm butter sliding across my tongue. The closer I get the more I start to feel nervous, wondering if once I find this person, the singing might stop. They might run away and take their healing song with them.

But as I take a turn in the surprisingly lit tunnel and I see the long strawberry blonde hair running down a narrow back, the oxygen as usual leaves my lungs.

She doesn't notice me. Her eyes gently closed as she lets her voice sing into the air. With an acoustic guitar covered in stickers, her fingers brush against the strings so casually as if its only her instinct to play the instrument so charmingly. She wears an oversized dark purple shirt, a bands name displayed across the front that I have no knowledge of. She also wears knee high red boots but nothing else and I feel a bit disheartened about the lack of warm clothes on her small body.

I've never heard the song she's singing before and as it goes on, I realise it doesn't have a proper structure either. There's no chorus or bridge. Just endless verses that flow so easily out of her pretty lips.

I'm stuck in a trance, her godly voice placing spell over me so that all I can do is stand and listen to her.

From the feather clouds and dark night skies.

I see you as only the person who can hear my cries.

No need to shout, no need to search.

I've already found everything I've ever needed.

Her eyes open at that point and they easily stare straight at me. The guitar pauses as her fingers freeze against the strings, but she doesn't completely the stop the song. A soft smile graces her lips as she finishes the last lyric, dragging out the last word in a steady note while keeping her eyes on me.

It's you...