Amongst the frenzy of bullets passing through, grazing John’s hat, there was always a constant in his life — wait. Wait for better to come, for the bad moments and memories to vanish, leaving room for greater, warmer ones. In the end, they go hand in hand: good with evil, happiness with sadness, and misery with luxury.

He learned to live with this delicate balance, this fragile truce between chaos and calm. It was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. Life never gave him anything without taking something in return, and so he waited — patient, but never passive. Every near miss, every close call, only reinforced the idea that there was a time for everything. A time to survive, and a time to thrive.

He had stopped counting the scars, both visible and hidden, but each one reminded him of the same truth: there’s always sunshine after the stormy cloud. The scars, as painful and itchy as they were, they held a message — survival, resilience, victory.

And damn was he grateful for it all. For all the pain he had endured, if only to relive this moment each time that the Earth did it’s full spin around the Sun — autumn.

Autumn was John’s season. It wasn’t just the fiery leaves scattered like confetti on the ground or the crisp air that signaled the close of another year. It was the quietness, the stillness, after months of heat and noise, the calm that came after a long season of battle. Autumn felt like a sigh of relief, a chance to reflect on the fact that, somehow, he was still standing. It was the season of reflection, of gathering strength for the winter ahead, much like John had done his entire life. Every autumn, he allowed himself to sit still, just for a moment, and appreciate what he had managed to hold onto despite the world’s best attempts to take it all away.

“What d’ya think about this one, hm?” holding two cardigans up to his chest, each in one hand, both earthy-colored, hand-knitted by you. “Is it better than the brown one, or should I keep patterns away from now?”