Eclipca

1.

Delora 

The wind is gradually picking up, and the early autumn chill is settling in. Leaves begin to rustle, whispering secrets as they dance across the ground, their vibrant colors fading into shades of amber and gold. The once-warm air carries a crisp edge, hinting at the colder days ahead. In the distance, the sun dips lower on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretch across the landscape like fingers reaching for the night. The sky, a canvas of muted oranges and purples, reflects the quiet transformation of the season, as nature prepares for its winter slumber.

The streets, once bustling with summer energy, now feel quieter, more reflective. People pull their coats tighter, hands tucked into pockets, as they hurry along paths lined with fallen leaves. The smell of wood smoke begins to waft through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying foliage. Somewhere nearby, the soft hoot of an owl echoes through the gathering dusk, a reminder of the life that continues on in the shadows.

As twilight deepens, the first stars emerge, twinkling faintly against the darkening sky. The wind, now a steady presence, whispers through the trees, carrying with it the promise of change. It's a time of endings and beginnings, where the last remnants of summer give way to the quiet introspection of autumn, and the world slowly prepares itself for the stillness of winter.

I stop writing in my book when the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the silence of the room. I glance up, pen still in hand, as my aunt steps into the doorway. Her movements are unhurried, almost as if she's taking care not to disturb the peace. The soft padding of her footsteps on the wooden floor echoes faintly, a rhythm that matches the steady beating of my heart.

She walks slowly, her eyes gentle but intent, taking in the scene before her. As she approaches, the scent of her familiar perfume—a blend of lavender and something earthy—wafts through the air, bringing with it a sense of calm. She sits down beside me, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight, and I can feel the warmth of her presence, a stark contrast to the cool air drifting in from the window. Her hand rests lightly on my arm, a silent gesture of comfort, as if to say she's here, without needing to say anything at all.

"Hi, beautiful," my aunt says softly, her voice carrying the warmth of her affection. She glances down at the open book in my lap, her curiosity evident in her eyes. "What are you writing today?" she asks, her tone gentle and encouraging, as if whatever I'm working on is already something special.

I always write when I'm bored, and my aunt knows that well—it's something we've come to share in our quiet moments together. "Nothing much," I say with a shrug, "just writing about the autumn cold." 

"You're going to be a fantastic writer one day," my aunt says with a warm smile, her eyes shining with genuine encouragement. "And I'm going to be with you all the way." Her words are a comforting promise, adding a touch of inspiration to the cool autumn air.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound the rustle of my pen on paper. Then my aunt breaks the quiet with a soft, yet firm reminder, "Dinner will be served soon. Make sure you're there—it's your favorite." Her voice carries a hint of anticipation, making me look up with a smile, already looking forward to the meal.

"Sure, give me a minute and I'll be right there," I reply with a grin. "I'll make sure to eat it all."

She laughs softly before closing the door behind her, the sound lingering in the quiet room. I set my book and pen on the nightstand, then take one last look out the window, savoring the crisp, autumn air. After a deep breath, I close the window and start heading downstairs, the anticipation of dinner adding a spring to my step.