━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

The days passed, blending together as the heat of summer faded into the cool, crisp air of fall. The leaves turned brilliant shades of red, orange, and gold, carpeting the ground in a blanket of warmth that belied the chill in the breeze.

And you, too, changed once more.

Your skin had shifted once more, the warm undertones of amber returning to your complexion, with faint russet hues curling along the edges of your fingertips like the leaves of autumn trees. Yet, traces of summer lingered within you: a faint glow in your hair, the occasional flicker of fire in your eyes when frustration bubbled to the surface.

You had become a living reflection of the shifting seasons, and with each change, you felt the weight of your existence grow heavier.

You spent your days lounging on a high branch of your tree, staring out at the world below. The hollow at its center was still your sanctuary, but now the branches above offered you solace as well—a place to observe, to think, to try and make sense of what you had learned.

When Persephone left for her time in the Underworld, you didn't join the nymphs and spirits who gathered to bid her farewell.

You couldn't bring yourself to watch the ground open and swallow her once more, couldn't face the weight of Demeter's sorrow as her daughter disappeared into the Underworld.

Demeter had lingered near the cottage that day, her golden eyes glancing toward your tree more often than usual. She didn't call for you, didn't ask you to join her, but you could feel her presence—a constant, watchful weight in the air.

You knew she'd noticed your distance.

She'd felt it in the way you avoided her gaze, in the way your words had grown fewer, in the way you now retreated to your tree more often than ever before.

Perhaps she suspected you had overheard her and Persephone's conversation. Perhaps she simply knew that something within you had shifted.

But whatever the reason, she didn't press you.

And so, the space between you grew.

You stayed in your tree, letting the branches shield you from the world, while Demeter busied herself with the work of autumn, her presence a constant weight at the edges of your awareness.

.☆.

Since overhearing Persephone and Demeter's conversation, something inside you had shifted. You saw everything through the lens of what you might be—the very seasons incarnate, bound to an eternal cycle—and reshaped your understanding of yourself.

You found yourself reevaluating your memories—every moment you had lived before this revelation.

You thought of your earliest days, how emotions had always felt strange to you. In spring, you had felt light and carefree, your curiosity boundless and innocent. In summer, your anger had burned hot and quick, your frustration nearly impossible to contain. And now, in autumn, you felt reflective and heavy, the quiet sorrow of the season seeping into your very being.

You could still feel, of course, but everything was muted, except for what matched the season/aligned with the world around you.

Your emotions burned hotter in summer.

You felt light and carefree in spring.

You felt reflective, deeply melancholic in fall.

And winter... you didn't want to think about winter yet.

It was as though your very being was tied to the world's natural rhythms, your soul moving in time with the earth—a constant reminder that you weren't like those around you.

And as the days grew shorter and the leaves continued to fall, the melancholy of the season seemed to feed your thoughts.

You felt as though you were standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, the weight of your existence pressing down on you like the fading warmth of the sun.

You didn't know what it all meant—what you were meant to become, what role you were meant to play.

All you knew was that everything felt different now.

The world you had once seen as endless and full of possibility now felt small and fragile, a reflection of the turmoil inside you.

And as you lay on the branch of your tree, staring up at the grey autumn sky, you wondered if you would ever truly feel the same again.

☆
✩
☆

The days of fall sped by in a blink, the season unraveling as if time itself were impatient to move forward. The once-vibrant leaves on your tree dulled, their fiery hues fading into muted browns and yellows before drifting to the ground in scattered piles. The wind carried a sharper edge now, brushing through the branches with a mournful sigh, stripping away the last remnants of color.

It was as though the world itself were shedding its skin, bracing for the quiet stillness of winter.

As the days passed, you found yourself retreating deeper into the hollow of your tree, curling into its heart. The world beyond the spiraling branches felt too vast, too loud, even as winter's approach muted its noise.

The solitude didn't bring peace. Thoughts churned endlessly, looping back on themselves, dragging you deeper into the weight of your own doubts.

Am I real?

The question echoed in your mind incessantly, a quiet whisper that refused to fade. Were you truly a person, or just a manifestation of the seasons' endless cycles?

Do I have free will?

Your actions, your emotions—were they truly your own? Or were they dictated by the world around you? Was your frustration in summer yours, or just the heat's influence? Was your melancholy in autumn real, or simply the weight of falling leaves?

Why am I here now?

You stared out from the hollow, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. The world beyond the branches felt foreign, less familiar, as if it had shifted without you noticing.

Am I just a product of endless cycles? What is my purpose?

That thought haunted you most of all.

Before you, the seasons had always existed in harmony, unbroken, moving forward without hesitation—rivers froze, leaves fell, life persisted. If the world had done so well without you, what did your existence mean? Were you here to guide the seasons—or disrupt them? To balance them—or push them to the brink?

And if you had no purpose, no role... why were you here at all?

Your forehead rested against your knees, your breath slow and heavy as the hollow seemed to shrink around you, its walls pressing inward. The gentle hum of the tree's energy, once comforting, now felt distant—unable to quiet the storm within.

You couldn't tell where your thoughts ended and the world's influence began.

Were my emotions truly my own? Or were they just an extension of nature, destined to move in endless, unthinking loops?

The grey autumn sky outside darkened as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the branches. The fading light bathed the world in muted tones, turning the leaves into brittle silhouettes, their once-vivid colors long gone.

Memories flickered in your mind like fragile sparks: Persephone's laughter as she wove flowers into your hair. Demeter's gentle hands brushing dirt from your face. The nature spirits dancing in spring's golden light.

They felt far away. Not just distant, but unreal—like fragments of a dream you had imagined, something fleeting, not meant to stay.

A trembling sound broke the stillness. It startled you until you realized it came from you: a quiet, uneven sniffle.

Blinking, you reached up instinctively, fingertips brushing wetness on your cheeks. Tears.

They fell slowly at first, then faster, rolling down your face, dripping onto your arms and the smooth wood below. There were no sobs, just a steady flow, relentless, as if the tears had been waiting for permission to surface.

"Will I ever truly feel? Or am I just... a cycle?"

The words fell from your lips, soft and broken, the thought wrapping around you like a vine, tightening with every second.

"No."

The word escaped in a whisper, defiant yet hollow. You curled tighter into yourself, as though the small act might shield you from the weight pressing down on your soul.

The questions spiraled endlessly, replaying over and over. What am I? Who am I? Are my emotions even real? The ache in your chest swelled, sharp and unbearable.

You hated it—the heaviness, the uncertainty, the ache that wouldn't leave your chest. It felt too much, too consuming, like it would swallow you whole.

A flicker of frustration ignited within you—hot, consuming, desperate. It built like a scream in your chest, threatening to break free. But just as quickly as it came, it fizzled out, leaving only the hollow ache behind.

You wiped at your tears angrily, the effort futile. You wanted it to stop—to go back. Back to when things were simpler, before you understood what it meant to feel, to question, to doubt.

And then, as you clung to the hollowness within, a sliver of detachment surfaced. It was faint, but it was there—a stillness you remembered from before. You latched onto it desperately, your breathing slowing as the weight inside you dulled ever so slightly.

Unbeknownst to you, as your despair deepened and you embraced that emptiness, the world mirrored your pain.

A biting chill spread through the air, subtle at first but soon sharper. The ground outside your tree hardened with frost, jagged lines creeping across the earth. Rivers froze mid-flow, their surfaces fracturing under the sudden cold.

The vibrant colors of autumn vanished overnight, replaced by a bleak world of grey and white. Across the land, the coldest winter in history began—a deep, unnatural frost that touched every corner of the world.

And you, curled in the hollow of your tree, never noticed.