A little lower and the track rises to meet the trees, the posts climbing alongside like a slow staircase. Brown leaves are scattered thick across the dirt. Green appears only in patches, low and stubborn. The arch of branches overhead frames the road like a proscenium, though the only performer due is the wind.
A single lamp burns white over a narrow path, its light falling on a balustrade and a sloping wall of leaves. The path bends away into darkness. Dry leaves gather in the corners. It is the kind of corner where a story would begin, but tonight nothing happens, which is its own small mercy.
