“Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

The other day I used this quote and lamented that the stories of autumn were still on the horizon. But tonight, during our evening walk, it felt like the book had begun to crack open. A crisp chill hung in the air—perfect for my thick sweats. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot and danced with each breeze, while those still filling to the trees were just beginning to show their colors. The transition finally felt tangible. Everything seemed a little more vibrant, a little more soulful.

And yet, there was a hint of melancholy in the air. Even as the golden hour gave the turning leaves a warm glow, I noticed a few different storylines unfolding along the path — quiet reminders that change, even when beautiful, carries its own kind of wistfulness.

A few morning glory blooms were still trying to extend their season, and I found myself stopping to study them. I couldn’t quite decide if they were inspiring or a little tragic — or maybe both. I know they’re just plants, but still… it made me sad. That vine produced such gorgeous flowers this year, and it’s still trying, still reaching.

But then I thought: there are people like me who still pause to appreciate them. So maybe that’s enough. Maybe that makes it inspiring after all.

Then I came across a bundle of wilting long-stemmed roses, carefully placed just off the path. I instantly had questions: What does this mean? Who put them there — and why? Had something happened in this spot, and someone left them as a quiet remembrance? Or did they fall from a backpack or bike basket, unintentionally abandoned?

I still don’t know the story behind them, but it was clear this wasn’t a random placement. There was intention in it. I guess this is a chapter from a book I’ll never read.

And then there was Finnegan. He found a story all his own. He didn’t understand it, but I did. And it absolutely cracked me up.

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