The crunch of their footsteps sounded too loud in the quiet of the afternoon. Paul and Jane walked side by side across the lawn, their boots sinking slightly into the thick carpet of fire-colored leaves. Before them, the great maple tree stood against the pale, overcast sky, its branches a blazing mix of scarlet, gold, and orange. It was the last time they would see it like this. The “Sold” sign hammered into the grass near the driveway was a stark, final punctuation mark on the end of their childhood.
“It looks like it’s showing off for us,” Jane said, her voice soft, catching in her throat. “One last time.”
Paul didn’t answer, just shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. He was never one for words when feelings ran high. He stared up at the familiar branches, the thick, sturdy limbs where he’d scraped his knee a dozen times, the high V-shape where he and his dad had failed to hang a tire swing one summer.
The air smelled of damp earth and goodbyes. For twenty-five years, this tree had been the silent witness to their lives. It had shaded their summer picnics, caught their kites, and held their secrets in its rough bark. Now, it would belong to another family, another set of children.
“I want to take something,” Jane said suddenly, stopping at the edge of the leafy blanket. “Something more than a picture. Something real.”
Paul looked at her. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Like what? A branch?” he asked, a hint of his protective older-brother teasing in his tone.
“No,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “A leaf. The perfect leaf. Just one, to press in a book. To remember all of this.”
The idea was so simple, so quintessentially Jane, that Paul couldn't help but agree. A single leaf. How were they supposed to choose just one from the thousands that lay at their feet and the thousands more still clinging to the branches?
“Okay,” he said, his voice softer than before. “What makes a leaf perfect?”
“I’ll know it when I see it,” she replied, and with that, the search began.
They waded into the sea of leaves, the sound a constant, rustling whisper around them. Paul bent down first, picking up a leaf of the purest, most brilliant scarlet. It was flawless, its points sharp, its color as deep as a glass of wine.
“How about this one?” he offered. “It’s the color I always think of when I think of this tree.” He held it out on his palm. “It reminds me of that time I fell from the lowest branch and got that huge gash on my knee. Mom ran out with a whole roll of paper towels.”
Jane took the leaf, turning it over in her fingers. “I remember that,” she said. “You cried for a whole hour, but you wouldn’t let her carry you inside.” She handed it back. “It’s a good memory. But it’s your memory. The perfect leaf has to be for both of us.”
She continued her search, her eyes scanning the ground. A few minutes later, she gasped softly and picked one up. This one was a luminous, perfect gold, so bright it almost seemed to glow.
“This one,” she said, holding it up to the light. “This reminds me of those long afternoons after school, sitting right here with a book while Dad was raking. The sun would shine through the branches and make everything look golden.”
Paul took the leaf from her. It felt smooth and delicate. “I remember that, too,” he said. “You were always reading. I was usually trying to bomb you with leaf piles from behind.” He smiled at the memory, but then shook his head. “It’s a beautiful leaf, Jane. But it feels too quiet. Too… calm. Our childhood wasn’t always calm.”
She knew he was right. They let the golden leaf flutter back to the ground and continued their search, moving closer to the trunk. They worked in a comfortable silence now, sifting through the layers of their past. They weren’t just looking at leaves; they were looking at faded summers, snow-covered winters, and a thousand ordinary days that, when piled together, had built their lives.
It was Paul who found it. Tucked near the base of the tree, resting against a gnarled root, was a single, large maple leaf unlike any other. It wasn't one solid color. Its edges were a fiery crimson, which bled into a warm orange, then a soft yellow, and at its very center, near the stem, was a stubborn, lingering patch of summer green.
“Jane,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Look.”
She came over and knelt beside him. He didn't need to pick it up. They both saw it. It was imperfect, a patchwork of seasons. It held the memory of the green, hopeful summer, the slow, beautiful fade of early autumn, and the final, brilliant fire of its end.
“The treehouse,” Jane breathed, her eyes fixed on the leaf.
Paul nodded. He remembered. The summer he was ten and she was seven, they had decided to build a fort at the base of the tree. He had wanted to build it with serious, straight boards. She had wanted to decorate it with flowers and painted rocks. They had argued for a week, a fiery red argument, before finally compromising, creating a chaotic, wonderful structure of scavenged wood, old blankets, and dandelion chains. It was a little bit of his practical nature and a little bit of her dreamy one. It was green and gold and red all at once. It was them.
“This is it,” he said, finally picking it up with reverence. The stem was still strong.
They walked back toward the house, the single leaf held carefully between Paul's hands. Inside, the rooms echoed with emptiness, the furniture gone, the walls bare. Jane pulled a thick, worn book from her bag, the one their mother used to read to them from, its cover adorned with faded gold lettering: Classic Fairy Tales.
She opened it to the middle, to a page between stories, and Paul gently placed the leaf on the smooth, white paper. It lay there, a collage of their shared history. As Jane closed the book, the satisfying weight of the cover pressing their memory into permanence, they both knew they had chosen well.
The house was empty, but they weren't leaving with nothing. They had the leaf. And they had the stories. As they closed the front door for the very last time, they took one final look back. The great maple tree stood waiting, ready to let go of the rest of its leaves, ready for the quiet of winter, ready for whatever came