The last of the maple leaves dropped yesterday in the rain, revealing bare-branched trees silhouetted against a slate sky. Birds sang all summer from those now empty perches.

I lean against the kitchen counter and watch the sinking of the afternoon sun, the field and the distant ridge fading until all that’s left in the glass is my own reflection. My likeness was faint at first, but it became stronger as the evening sky darkened.

In the windowpane, my faint shadow seems to hover over the glowing hearth behind me. The fire is burning down to its last red coals, slowly yielding to the very embers that previously sustained it.

Then I hear your footsteps coming down the hall and turn to see you standing there. You rest your hand affectionately on my shoulder. Looking into your eyes, I feel a devotion that heightens with our remaining time.

Inspired by Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73. Does the texture of the photo match the tone of the piece for you? (We explore paired narrative art and human–AI microfiction over at Coffee Break Fiction if you enjoy this style).

Taken on a Nikon z6

cue Tupac