Where Leaves Begin

By late spring, the leaves along the river had settled into their full color—no longer the trembling, pale green of beginnings, but a deeper shade that held its own in the wind. Elio walked the path in the early morning quiet, the sun just beginning to warm the tops of the branches. Birds moved through the canopy with confidence now, their calls clear and practiced. He paused beneath the willow tree. The ground was firmer than it had been weeks ago, the mud replaced by soft grass. The river moved steadily beside him, no longer carrying the last pieces of winter. Everything felt calmer. Not finished, not perfect—just steady. Footsteps approached from behind. Maren joined him without a word, hands in his pockets, gaze on the water. They stood side by side, the silence between them no longer sharp or uncertain. It felt like part of the place now, like the river or the wind or the shade of the leaves. “You’re still here,” Maren said. Elio nodded. “Yeah.” Maren didn’t smile, but something eased in his posture. “Good.” A breeze moved through the branches above them, scattering a few loose leaves that drifted down in slow spirals. One landed near Elio’s shoe, soft and bright. He picked it up, turning it between his fingers. “It’s strange,” he said quietly. “How fast things grow.” Maren looked at him then, steady and unhurried. “Not fast,” he said. “Just… in their own time.” Elio let the leaf fall back to the ground. The river murmured beside them, the world warm and green and open. They didn’t need to say anything else.