The crisp air carried whispers of change as Clara walked down the winding path to her grandmother’s cottage. Autumn had draped the valley in gold and crimson, and the scent of woodsmoke lingered like an old friend. She hadn’t visited in years-not since her promotion, the endless meetings, and the glow of screens replaced the glow of fireflies. But tonight, the weight of her polished life felt heavier than the leather briefcase she carried.

Her grandmother, Agnes, was waiting on the porch, her hands cradling a chipped mug of cider. “You’re just in time,” she said, her voice like rustling leaves. “The last pumpkins need picking before the frost settles.”

Clara frowned. “I didn’t come here to work, Gran. I came to¡­ well, *rest*.”

Agnes chuckled. “Rest isn’t idle, child. It’s a dance with what’s real.” She handed Clara a basket and led her to the overgrown patch behind the cottage. The pumpkins sprawled wildly, some split open to reveal glistening seeds, others still clinging to vines like stubborn children.

“Why let them rot?” Clara asked, prodding a softened gourd with her boot.

“Not rot,” Agnes corrected. “Return. What’s fallen feeds what grows.” She knelt, her knees cracking like kindling, and scooped seeds from a collapsed pumpkin into her palm. “These’ll be next year’s pie. Or soup. Or a gift for the birds, if they’re lucky.”

Clara watched a maple leaf spiral down, landing in her basket. She’d forgotten how autumn blurred the lines between loss and gift.

—

That night, after a supper of squash soup and bread thick with rosemary, Agnes led Clara to the attic. Dust motes danced in the lantern light as she pulled a wooden box from beneath a quilt. Inside lay a bundle of letters, tied with twine.

“Your grandfather wrote these,” Agnes said, her thumb brushing a postmark from 1963. “He was traveling for work when I was pregnant with your mother. Hated every mile apart.” She unfolded a page, its edges brittle. *”The city’s full of noise,*” she read aloud, *”but all I hear is the silence where your laugh should be.”*

Clara shifted, uneasy. “Why keep these? They’re just¡­ words on paper.”

Agnes’s eyes gleamed. “Seeds, Clara. He planted them so I’d never feel alone.”

—

The frost came three days later. Clara stood at the edge of the pumpkin patch, watching sunlight gild the frosted vines. She’d spent mornings helping Agnes jar preserves afternoons untangling raspberry canes gone wild. Her phone, buried in a drawer, had stopped buzzing.

“Here.” Agnes pressed a jar of amber honey into her hands. “From the hives out back. The bees worked till the last bloom faded.”

Clara twisted the lid, releasing the scent of clover and endings. “What if I don’t want it to end? The harvest, I mean. The¡­ *this*.”

Agnes gestured to the field where crows feasted on spilled seeds. “Nothing ends. It just becomes next.”

—

When Clara returned to the city, she left her briefcase unlocked. Inside, next to her laptop, sat a pumpkin seed saved from the last harvest. On stressful days, she’d roll it between her fingers, remembering how endings smell of cider and possibility.

And when the first snow fell, she mailed a letter-*real paper, real stamps*-to the cottage. Agnes would read it by the fire, smiling at the pressed maple leaf tucked between the lines.

* * *

**The End**

Word Count: 598

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