Not just any leaf—me, golden-brown and freckled with dew, clinging to the highest branch of an ancient oak. The wind whispered secrets through the canopy, and I listened with trembling veins. Then, with a sigh too soft to hear, I let go.

I drifted.

The fall was slow, like time had forgotten to tick. I spun gently, glimpsing the world from angles I’d never known. A squirrel paused mid-leap to watch me descend. A crow cawed once, as if to mark my passage. The sun, just cresting the horizon, caught my edges and made me glow.

I landed on a patch of moss, cushioned and cool. Around me, other leaves lay in quiet communion—some curled with age, others freshly fallen like me. We didn’t speak, but we understood. We were no longer part of the tree, yet we were still part of the story.

A child wandered by, crunching through the leaf-litter. She picked me up, turned me over in her small hands, and smiled. “This one’s pretty,” she said, tucking me into her coat pocket like a secret.

In that moment, I felt eternal.

I was no longer just a leaf—I was a memory in the making, a whisper of autumn carried forward. The tree would forget me, but the child might not. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be pressed between pages, or taped to a window, or simply remembered on a walk years from now.

Then I woke up.

The dream lingered like mist. I touched my chest, half-expecting to feel veins of bark. But I was me again—human, warm, and wondering. Still, part of me swears I can feel the wind. And somewhere deep inside, I’m still falling.