... By the first of October, the world wraps itself in worn, tired skin, crisp leaves swirling like lost thoughts, each gust a reminder of what slips away— the sun bows out early, hiding its face behind clouds, while pumpkins, ripe with rot, scatter across the cracked sidewalks like quiet, buried confessions. My frail body— a moth-eaten tapestry of scars— embraces the chill, sipping spiced cider that warms the hollow of my throat, as I gather strength like fallen leaves, crunching beneath the weight of memories. I unearth my brittle bones, gentle as a nurse with a patient heart, and there’s a softness in the air, the smell of damp earth, a promise of rebirth in the rustle of dying grass, stitching the fibers of my resolve. Each day a small victory, the sun filtering through branches like a hand reaching down, and I rise— not as a ghost of what was, but as the first tender sprouts, breaking through winter’s grip, rooting deep, stronger, saying yes to the vibrant scarlet dawn of a life y...