When I had returned, all the stone fruit- the plums, the cherries, they had all fallen from their trees. In their place, the leaves were flush with red, orange, hues of amber, gleaming from the Baltic Sea. Children’s voices echoed through the hills, running, falling down, crying, laughing, the color of the leaves plush within their cheeks.
Beyond, the city stood. Old, dark, beautiful, mysterious, baroque with facades of color, decadence, grandeur. Smells of oak, husky cedars permeated the air. Church bells rang in the distance, asking for the ears of thousands. These hills asked for the steps of no one.
I walked on old bricks of cobblestone, laid centuries before. A pear fell out of a tree, and tumbled down next to my foot. I picked it up, smelled its sweet and somber scent. I bit into it, and it yielded to me. Succumbed like a helpless animal. Sweet and astringent, lonely, and full of transience.
Dark trees that strained to reach out- the air was moist and heavy, palpable with the imminence of their seasonal death. As I walked, wild chestnuts surrounded my feet- small, round, sentimental, pleasing to my palm as I held them. I found one that still had its outer shell, a tiny fortress of armor and thorns. I collected them all, carried them in my pocket. They were warm to look at, red amongst the dead brown leaves, and filled my heart with excitement.
Off in the distance, I could still hear the church bells ring.
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