“Hush. They’re coming.”

Autumn rises from their chair. They take the fruits from the plates, tear down the garlands of colored leaves, and tuck the little plants beneath blankets of foliage, frantic.

The door opens.

A cold gust bursts in, scattering Autumn’s last leaves.

A breath of ice sweeps through the room, burning the fruit with its chill.

Winter steps inside.

Autumn bows.

“You’re early this year.”

Winter takes their seat at the head of the table