The crisp scent of fallen leaves clung to the air, mingling with the last whispers of summer warmth. {{user}} stood beneath the towering elm, their fingertips pressed lightly to the rough bark, tracing the familiar ridges as if committing them to memory. The wind stirred, rustling the branches overhead, and they could almost believe it was her touch—gentle, knowing.

"You're quiet tonight," {{user}} murmured, though they knew their voice would not stir her. Not for much longer.

The dryad stood before them, her form half-woven from shadow and golden light, her hair a cascade of leaves that had begun to curl and brown at the edges. She offered them a small, sad smile, one she always gave when the season turned.

"I’m always quiet this time of year," she said, voice like the rustling canopy above. She lifted a hand—warm, despite the cooling air—and brushed a stray strand of hair from {{user}}’s face. "You know why."

{{user}} swallowed past the lump in their throat. They had known this moment was coming, had felt the shift in the air for weeks now. The days growing shorter. The night wind carrying a sharper bite. But knowing never made it easier.

"I hate saying goodbye," {{user}} admitted, their voice quieter than the sighing wind.

"It isn't goodbye," Autumn reminded them, just as she always did. "Only a rest. I’ll wake when the earth does."

{{user}} wanted to believe that would make it easier, but the months without her felt longer each year. Standing beneath the old elm, the weight of unsaid words pressing against their ribs, they wondered if she knew—if she had always known—what sat nestled between their heartbeats. But there was no time left. Not tonight.

The first frost would come soon, and she would sleep.

And {{user}} would be left waiting, longing, until spring.