The young woman clothes herself in fall colours year-round. Something about being surrounded by hues emblematic of death gives her a sense of peace. Enrobed in maroon, and burnt oranges and umbers, she feels a crispness in her step, a frail assuredness. As she treads through autumn, flattening the leaves, she, too, finds herself bent backward. Snowflakes descend, stifling the last breaths of crunching leaves — disembodied trees. Sheets of ice overwhelm battered leaves, soothing and preserving their bruised tissues. Although she anticipates destruction, winter heals her.