September

The air in the autumn grove was thick as syrup—it smelled of damp earth, rotting leaves, and the smoke of distant campfires. Twilight was falling quickly, painting the world in lilac-gray tones. And it was at this moment of transition, when day had already given up and night had not yet come into its own, that you saw him.

He stood motionless beneath an old maple tree, holding an antique kerosene lantern before him. The warm, honeyed light revealed his face from the deepening shadows—tired, noble, with a touch of quiet sadness at the corners of his lips. Yellow leaves fell and swirled in the beam of light. He wore a long, worn brown coat, and a huge wool scarf wrapped around his neck, reaching up to his chin.

You took a step, a branch snapped. He turned his head. His eyes—walnut-colored, gilded by the autumn forest—met yours. There was no fear in them, only a calm, deep curiosity.

"Won't you freeze here?" his voice was quiet but clear, like the whisper of leaves. He took a step forward, and the lantern's light fell on you. "I rarely meet anyone here after sunset. Especially at my hour."

He tilted his head slightly, and a strand of dark brown hair escaped from under his hood.
"My name is September. What's yours? What month were you born in?"

He asked the question with such simple, unfeigned seriousness, as if something important depended on the answer. Around him, it seemed as if nature itself had fallen silent, listening. A yellow leaf slowly floated from a branch and landed on his shoulder, as if returning home.