A new day dawns, and the sun is low in the sky. The sky is a cool blue-white, and despite the brighter rays, the air is still cold. Far in the background, the Fillydelphian haze is abandoned. The young oak stands once more, bare this time. On the ground are scattered bright smudges of red, orange, and yellow. They are brighter, perhaps, but they have left the tree without its cloak. The wayfarer stands among the leaves, once more figuring what can be found in the lonely oak. The artist stands behind, her eyes soft with the look of concern.
There is something more to find here, he knows. It is just beyond the reach of his mind, just beyond his mortal comprehension. The cold wind readies him to shiver, and he regrets crushing the soft leaves underhoof. He has already paid it tribute, but he has missed something, he thinks, that can yet be discovered here. It teases and taunts him, constantly floating around the edge of his senses. Why does it hide now? Perhaps he has lost something in his travels. He never thinks he has much to lose in the first place. Still, the tree accuses him now of being bare. Of what, the wayfarer knows not. Has he loved her any less? Absolutely not. There are emotions that demand solving in Fillydelphia. Now that he has resolved them, he may go on, start anew. He looks forward to the world with her. Already he sees the bright cityscapes, lit in even moonlight.
Yet still this tree confounds him. Perhaps it must be found upon a new revisiting. That disappoints him; he feels so close to finding it. It tries all of his patience, and he still searches his heart for the tree’s quarrel. If the wayfarer has love, what can he be missing? He decides he cannot yet answer that. Defeated, he resigns, committing to return another day, another time, for the question the tree poses to him is greater than any he has yet answered. As he sees the city behind, he affirms his resolution never to return. He will visit only for the tree. One day, he will be wiser. He always sees more when he revisits. That is his hope, at least.
What, then, is this meeting? Has he met the tree simply to be asked a question? Perhaps he may find the answer somewhere else. His journeys have never been particularly connected, but something, he senses, changes as he stares up at the pointed arms of the tree. He wonders if the tree has given the same quest to any other, or if he is alone in the search for an answer. The wayfarer realizes he is afraid of what he will find. The strange request has left him curious, but something about the tree, perhaps its fallen leaves, tells the wayfarer that the answer may not be pleasant. He wishes that, just for once, a wisdom other than love could be sweet. He has met patience, destiny, legacy, beauty, and love, and only love has left him without some bitter taste. Thankfully, love has been enough, so far, to make up for the transgressions of the rest. He thinks back to his vow, and smiles. Always, he thinks, for her alone.
He is looking for something, she thinks. He cannot find it. Whatever it is, it troubles him, and his eyes are searching restlessly for an answer. Was it an answer? She believes so. She wonders if he will ask her, if he even knows the question. She must ask, help him search. Yet, she hears no such call from the tree. The whispers have stopped with the leaves, but the benevolence still remains for her. Her mind halts for a moment, and the realization dawns on her. This question he must answer alone. Her heart sinks. More than helplessness, she hates being unable to help. It makes her feel weak, uncaring, though it is outside of her power.
Quite a bit is outside of her power, is it not? She is of no import to any but the wayfarer. Does that distress her? Yes, she decides. Would it be any different if her art were discovered, acclaimed? Not by much, she thinks. She may be loved and praised, but she commands no kingdom, moves no mountains. All she truly controls is herself, and that – she bitterly laughs to herself – varies. She cannot even help her love in crisis. All she has is her heart and her money for him. It is not an issue, she tries to affirm, but the thought dies quickly. Of all the things she could give him, it is the thing he has not truly needed. Is her heart enough? The better part of herself smiles, and she realizes she is a fool. Of course it is enough. She may not work the question with him, but she can surely ease his worry. Worry has always been a plague, she thinks. Never has she known it to lengthen her life or solve a problem. Surely, it gives her no calm.
However, as she takes in the colors of the leaves, the tree does have a last message for her. Something approaches, something that both of them must be prepared for. It comes quietly, brightly. The supposition floats about her mind a bit, and baffles her. She knows only one answer that fits the leaves’ riddle, and she knows not how to understand it. Will she tell him? No, he has enough to worry about. She must wait. Still, just the idea brings her a sense of excitement, and her heart leaps for a moment. It it true? Time will tell, she knows. Now, though, a simple joy threatens to spread across her face, to break her concern. Perhaps it will ease his as well.
The tree gives its mandate, and so falls into a deep sleep. So, autumn has begun; the leaves have fallen.