• _rainfrost_ 56w

    ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ 4: ������������ ������

    I leave my home, donned in my little Breton shirt. I trot down the narrow twichel with fall placing its warm arms around my shoulders. The sky is wearing a cornflower blue and beech branches are singing, "Bonne rentrée!". The leaves are so vibrant, it makes me dance. But I think I won't risk it, my bag is a little bit heavy.

    I pick up a fallen leaf, perfectly painted in yellow, and keep it inside my pocket. Everything about autumn is so cinnamon sweet and sunny. This indeed is the golden age.

    As I step in the country-town street, I watch old Mr. Chastain fill jars with greengage plum jam in his small cottage. I listen to the tune of French harp played by a man in red. There's a tweed coat seller, standing near a bakery shop, wearing a warm smile over her pretty face. Everyone is so happy.

    I scrutinize the desserts on the baker's stall. Honey orange macaroons with pumkin spice cream, and croissants all golden-brown like the bark of oak tree in my yard. And I want a caramel apple so badly now. I hope my mumma would give me some coins, so I munch it happily while I'm on my way home.

    I'll be meeting my friends after so long. I'm wondering how tall would they have got in all this while. We'll play many games and have fun. And I can't wait to meet Miss Lane's cute briar.

    Everything is so full of life, on a golden day of September. It's like happiness is sinking in the world, and the earth's wearing its best dress. The sunshine glowing through the withering leaves, the bliss floating over the cobblestone streets. I feel the earth's calling me. To the new colours of autumn, to a new little life.



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