Ever Fall [✔️ 2016]

Chapter 3

The forest was everything Timothy dreamed it would be.

As he trekked through, secret pen in hand, he slowed his pace to gaze around him at his beloved pines, firs, birches, and ceders.

It was mid autumn, the leaves turning warming hues of reds, yellows, and oranges before falling to the ground and turning brown for good. It was the leaves who taught him that everything died, and that everything turned brown eventually. Brown was the color of the soil, and the soil was what everything would return to once it's waking days were done. That's what happened to the leaves and the animals and him one day, he knew. It just made sense. To give him immortality instead of everything else would be simply unfair to the animals. It was the process of life and this cycle comforted Timothy. He knew that he would always be moving with it, even in death.

How ironic it was that everything was dying- the leaves, the grass- yet everything looked so beautiful at the same time.

But not the towering green trees; the ones with needles. They stayed green and healthy while all the other trees' leaves turned colors and fell. The first kept their branches of green, but his trees towered over all.

Timothy liked these trees. They stood strong and fast against the world and never gave ground to the wind and rain and years. Timothy admired that. He wanted to be like the tall needle trees.

The leaves now, though, looked remarkably different than before the rains had come. The water had washed all the dust and grime away, leaving behind colors even more brilliant than the boy had thought possible. It left a cool feeling in the air that energized his weak muscles and filled his lungs in refreshing drafts. The air, too, smelled crisp and clean like he'd never before imagined.

Experiencing it from a window and experiencing it for real were two very different things, he found.

It's a whole new world now, he thought, and it's right at my fingertips.

What game would he play this time? He looked down at the pen, furrowing his eyebrows at the small trinket. He was tired of being a ninja, so what use had he of the silver pen? He couldn't leave it out here because that wasn't right. He'd have to hold onto it and it wouldn't fit in his pockets, he knew.

It could be the whip he used on his racehorse as they turned into the straightaway and won first place.

It could be a gun he uses to hunt down bad people and save their hostages.

If could be the machine gun on his plane as he swooped through the air in a dogfight with a rival piolet.

Or it could just be a pen.

Pens were weapons, his father had said.

Timothy had implied that he could use it stab someone with the nib, but the man had shaken his head.

A pen, he'd corrected, can ruin lives or inspire them. Pens are used to write words and those words affect people.

"What if I wrote about a sick puppy who died?" he'd asked, kneeling in front of his son after being knifed with said pen. The little silver thing had been through a lot.

"That'd be sad to read."

"And if I wrote about a little boy or girl who got a puppy and were really happy?"

"That'd make me happy," he'd replied.

That was when he had understood. Much like how spoken words can hurt people, like calling someone ugly, so, too, can writing words on paper or whatever may have you have a similar effect.

It was funny how many memories could be found in a small object like a pen. Could a pin hold just as many, or would bigger objects hold bigger or more memories? That was something Timothy would have to ask his father about later when he got back home.

Home.

How long had it been since he'd left? No more than an hour? How was he to know when his mind drifted so easily?

And that's when he heard it.

It was very faint; barely a whisper on the wind, but he heard it. With his sensitive ears, Timothy had heard it.

Just what was that? It was almost like a soft, whistling gale that changed pitch. It was an entrancing sound and encouraged him forward, beckoning him in a way.

Most people would have called out in greeting to see if it was another human, but Timothy just quietly snuck forward, curious and spellbound by the faint serenade. He had to find it's origin, be it friend or foe.

Perhaps it was a "mew-mew-na."