It was a long time ago, in a faraway place, when autumn’s last days held fast. The cottage stood snug against the woods, its garden nearly gone to sleep. Only a few blossoms clung to color while the grasses bowed golden, dry as hay.

Down the flagstone path the couple walked—neither poor nor rich, but dressed with care against the season’s chill. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, with a hint of apples from the orchard beyond. A rabbit watched from the garden, and from a nearby branch a pair of birds chattered brightly, as if to say they had seen many such walks before, and knew well the secrets carried on an autumn breeze.