Seasons Must Change

The air carried the crisp and bitter scent of dying leaves, as if the world itself were mourning. The trees stood half-empty, their golden remnants tumbling in slow spirals to the pavement. The wind brushed past, cold and insistent, urging the season forward. But I remained still, watching.

A man stood outside the café, his violin resting beneath his chin. The bow glided across the strings, coaxing out a melody so delicate and haunting that it nearly shattered me. Each note trembled in the air, wrapping around me like a memory I had not yet let go of. My breath caught in my throat.

Lila.

Her name rose in my mind unbidden, heavy with the weight of something irretrievable. The music held me in place, refusing to let me look away. It was not just the song—it was the way it carried longing, the way it whispered loss. The way it knew me.

The door to the café loomed just ahead, but my feet refused to move. There, in the fading light of autumn, I stood in the space between what had been and what would never be again.

The song ended. The man lowered his violin, his eyes meeting mine as if he knew.

I stepped inside.

Warmth enveloped me, thick with the scent of coffee and cinnamon. The murmur of voices wove together, an indistinct hum of life continuing without me.

The counter felt familiar beneath my hands as I placed my order.

"Iced mocha," I said.

The barista barely looked up before nodding.

Routine had a way of dulling the edges of pain, but the moment my gaze lifted, the world cracked open again.

The piano sat in the corner, untouched, waiting.

It had been ours once.

Lila’s voice would rise into the air, effortless, while my fingers followed along, guiding the keys into something more than sound. Music had always felt like breathing—until she was gone.

The café blurred at the edges as I approached, drawn to the instrument as if by instinct. My hands hesitated above the keys. The cool surface pressed against my fingertips, unyielding.

A chord was attempted. The sound echoed hollow, foreign.

My chest ached.

A sharp inhale.

I tried again.

The weight of memory bore down too heavily.

It was not just my hands that hurt—it was everything. My heart, my soul, my very being. The pain curled deep, deeper than I had allowed myself to feel in months.

My fingers trembled. The music did not come.

A breath shuddered past my lips.

It was too much.

The guitar waited for me at home. It had been left untouched for weeks. The last time I had held it, the strings had felt strange beneath my fingertips, as if they belonged to someone else. Their sound had been lost to me.

When I tried to play, nothing felt right. The chords no longer knew me. My own song had slipped through my fingers, drifting into a silence I did not know how to break.

Winter arrived unnoticed—slow and consuming.

Snow muffled the streets, blanketing the town in a hush that felt almost sacred. The world grew distant, as if it had turned away from me the same way I had turned from it.

The guitar remained where I had left it. Dust gathered in the spaces between the strings. The weight of it against my lap had once felt like home, but now, it was a burden.

Loneliness had a sound. It was the absence of music.

The nights stretched long. The cold settled into my bones, seeping into the corners of my mind. The world outside remained frozen, unmoving.

One evening, I wandered through the empty streets. The wind stung against my skin, sharp and unforgiving. The lake had frozen over, its surface smooth and silent beneath the weight of winter.

A step forward. My boot pressed into the ice. A small crack echoed through the stillness.

Then—music.

Soft at first, then rising, slipping through the air like something alive.

I turned.

A house stood nearby, its windows glowing warmly against the night. The melody poured from inside, drifting toward me like an invitation.

A violin.

Familiar. Too familiar.

Lila’s song.

My breath caught. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather prickled along my skin.

The house felt both impossibly far and too close all at once. My feet carried me forward before I could think to stop them.

The steps creaked beneath my weight.

The music stopped.

The door opened.

She stood there, framed in the golden light, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Lila.

Her name was a whisper in my mind, a prayer, a wound that had never quite closed.

She did not speak. Neither did I.

Then, without a word, she stepped aside.

The warmth inside was overwhelming. Firelight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows. The violin rested in her hands, the bow still poised as if she had been expecting me all along.

And there, leaning against a chair—

My guitar.

I stared at it, unable to move.

"I never stopped playing," she said, voice quiet, as if too much volume might break whatever fragile thing had settled between us.

A lump formed in my throat. "I did."

Her gaze softened. "Then start with a single note."

For a moment, silence stretched between us, heavy with all that had been lost. Then, with a slow exhale, I stepped forward.

Spring came hesitantly, as if uncertain of its place after such a long winter. But even the seasons must change.

The snow receded. The trees stretched toward the sun. The world stirred, restless with the promise of something new.

And in a small café, on a Friday night, I sat on the stage once more.

Lila stood beside me, violin in hand.

The crowd hushed.

The piano keys glistened beneath the stage lights, but I did not reach for them. Instead, my fingers hovered over the guitar strings, waiting.

A breath.

A single note.

Then another.

A melody—uncertain at first—then growing, reaching, becoming.

Like the first bloom of spring.

Like something lost, finally finding its way home.