As the colours around her became richer, she felt herself begin to fade.
The fallen leaves were like paint splashes, ochre and burgundy competing with plum and russet. But she saw only grey, the brightness of the clear blue autumnal skies creating headaches behind her left eye as she wearily scanned the hedgerows.
The blackbirds were retreating, taking their song with them. Her lifeblood, the thing that nourished her.
So she stepped wearily into the autumn, squinting with unease at winter lurking on the horizon.
In the spring she would drink in their song until she burst with vibrant hues.
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