Autumn Melody

Autumn came to the Forest in full strength, with its rusty colors and smells.

The afternoon was all golden light and quiet rustling. Yens had finished piling leaves and sat beneath the trees, with a pocketknife and a smooth hollow stick that seemed to be waiting for him.

He wasn’t carving something specific, not really. It was simply what his hands wanted to do while the leaves whispered overhead. A curl of wood fell to the ground, then another, spiraling into the soft carpet of autumn. Slowly, the stick began to shape itself into something that looked like a flute toy he had as a child.

Across the clearing, Spinny had made himself perfectly round on a mossy rock, basking in the warm sun as though he was a small blackberry dropped by accident. He squeaked once in lazy acknowledgment, then closed his eyes again, tired from the morning spent jumping in the leaves.

By the time the shadows grew longer, Yens had a flute, not polished, not even straight, but a flute nonetheless. He raised it to his lips and tried a note. The sound came out thin and breathy, like the wind through a loose shutter. He chuckled, shook his head, and set it aside.

It wasn’t until much later, back at home, with the candle lit and the kettle just beginning to hum, that Spinny crept onto the table, tugged the flute toward himself, and blew.

The note that came out was clear, soft, and startlingly sweet. Then another, and another, falling into a tune that curled around the room like smoke, fragile and perfect.

Yens froze with the kettle in his hands, listening. He smiled slowly.

“Well,” he murmured, “I suppose it wasn’t for me after all.”

Spinny squeaked, but didn’t stop playing.
The melody rose and wove itself between the shadows on the walls, as if it had always been waiting there, just needing someone small and unlikely to set it free.