The last leaf clung onto the tree, reluctant to let go of the branch it held so dear to. But the breeze tugged at it, relentless, unmerciful. Finally, with the sigh of a last goodbye, the golden leaf was plucked unwillingly from its branch that now stood bare, and made its forlorn descent to the ground.

*click*

He took the picture just as the wind lifted the leaf off the branch. It was a quiet evening, the breeze cool and strong. There was a tinkle of laughter in the distance.

*click* *click* *click*

What do you do when you’re feeling lonely and depressed, or simply having too much time feeling bored? You write a story. Maybe it’s to escape studying for exams, or from the reality of life that bothers you, but you write a simple, beautiful story. A story that makes you smile, uncomplicated, unreal. Just some figment in the fantasy of your mind that no one else can really appreciate, but you want to share anyway. And since it’s Christmas, you write a simple, beautiful, Christmas story. With of course, the eternal undying theme of love. White love. So it begins.

Tom buried his face into his hands and sighed. Why did that have to happen? They were getting along just fine last week. And then suddenly, she just got angry with him like that. He was just a little late, that’s all, he was with his friends before that, can’t she understand?

He looked down and the whole world swirled. It was way too high for his comfort. But that was the point wasn’t it? He looked at his watch. 6.30am. Rush hour would begin soon. He wondered if anyone would miss him, and would they wonder where he was. Unlikely. Nobody cared about him anyway, or so he thought. There was always a glimmer of hope. Hope. He chuckled miserably to himself. It was hope that started all this anyway. Hope that something would happen.

The leaves were a sea of red and gold interspersed with fading green, rustling gently in the wind as if passing whispers of some secret tale. The sight of tree after tree donning their final colours before death was strangely gratifying, and even eerily beautiful.

This story is purely fictional. Any semblance of characters to real persons dead or living is purely due to guesswork and luck, further coloured by imagination. It is not supposed to be accurate, nor should it be expected to be accurate.

A little boy thought it was a good day to do some exploration, so he decided to take a trip to the city on his own for the first time. Taking his newly bought concession card that his mommy just got for him, the little boy embarked on what he hoped would be an adventure he could boast about to everyone later.