Between The Autumn Leaves

Flixie meets what appears to be the perfect man in the woods—but as strange truths surface, she begins to wonder who, or what, he really is.

September

Flixie wasn’t really looking for anyone. That was the truth of it. She’d settled into her life quietly and without fuss—weekend walks with Zelda – her spaniel, Sunday afternoons with her mother, book club on Wednesdays. It was enough.

The first time she saw him, it was late September. The trees had burst into colour and the lanes were edged with scrunched umber leaves. Zelda had just launched herself into a pile of them, sending bits flying with joyful abandon, when the man came around the bend. He was tall with sandy hair, a rucksack slung over one shoulder, and a slight crease to his brow.

Zelda barked once—just once, not her usual barrage—and sat down, ears alert. That was odd. She always barked at strangers.

“Friendly dog?” he asked, smiling. His voice had a calm, easy warmth.

“She is. She just likes to sound terrifying.” Flixie stepped aside to let him pass. He didn’t. He crouched down instead and held out a hand. Zelda bounded over, tail wagging.

“I’m Graham,” he said, glancing up at her.

“Flixie. Short for Felicity.”

“Pretty name.”

She blinked. “Thanks.”

He nodded politely, gave Zelda a final pat and continued on his way. She watched him go, then carried on walking, but something about the moment stuck like burrs to her jumper.

October

They met again the next weekend. And the one after that. Always on the same stretch of the footpath that led into the woods. It became a sort of ritual. He’d appear with his rucksack, they’d walk together for a while, talking about nothing and everything—books, music, favourite trees. He had a particular fondness for sycamores, said they had a sort of mischief about them. That made her laugh.

Zelda, oddly, had accepted him entirely. She greeted him like an old friend, often sitting between them as they talked. Once, she even lay down and went to sleep, which Graham took as a compliment.

But he never gave much away. He never talked about work or family. He had a carefulness about him, as if he were weighing each word before letting it go. And sometimes, his gaze would drift—not in boredom, but like he was listening for something else. Birds, maybe. Or the wind.

Once, Flixie asked, “Do you live nearby?”

He hesitated. “Sort of.”

That wasn’t really an answer, but she didn’t push. It didn’t feel like something she was supposed to know. Not yet.

November

By mid-November, the leaves had thinned and the air had sharpened. Flixie found herself thinking of Graham more than she meant to—looking out for him when she walked, feeling the hollow of his absence when he didn’t appear. So many times she'd wanted to ask for his number – or hoped he'd ask for hers. But he never did, and she never plucked up the courage in case he didn't see her that way.

One Sunday, Flixie was desperate to see him. So, she swallowed her pride and lingered by the old stile, pretending to check her phone every time she heard a noise like someone might be coming. Zelda whined softly.

“Maybe he’s not coming today,” she murmured. But just as she turned to go, he appeared, breathless, hair mussed.

“Hi,” he said. “You're here late today.”

“We lost track of time,” she smiled, watching Zelda wag her tail in greeting.

Graham looked at her, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret? Sadness?

“I wasn't expecting to see you.”

They walked in silence for a while. Then, as they reached the glade where the beeches grew close and tall, he stopped.

“I shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Seeing you. It’s not fair.”

Flixie’s stomach flipped. “Why?”

He looked at her then, really looked, like he was trying to memorise her face. “Because I can’t stay. And the more I see you, the harder it gets.”

Her throat tightened. “Are you leaving?”

“I don’t belong here. Not in the way you do.”

“I don’t understand.”

He reached out, brushed a leaf from her shoulder. “I know. I wish I could explain.”

Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

Zelda didn’t follow. She just sat beside Flixie, ears low, as the wind picked up and the first drops of rain began to fall.

Late November

Days passed. Then a week. Flixie tried not to hope, but the hope came anyway. She walked the path. Waited. Nothing.

It was nearly December when she saw him again. She’d taken a different route, trying to avoid memories, when Zelda darted ahead, barking joyfully.

And there he was. Standing beneath a twisted oak, like he’d been carved into the landscape.

“You came back,” she said, breath catching.

“I had to see you. One last time.”

“Why? What is this, Graham? Who are you really?”

He hesitated, then stepped closer. “I’m not from here. Not in the way you think. This place—it called to me. But I don’t belong among people. I’m… tied to the forest.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The woods have old roots, Flixie. Some of us are bound to them. Guardians, spirits—whatever name you want. I tried to forget it, to live like you. But the forest doesn’t let go.”

Silence stretched between them.

“You’re not human?”

“I was. Once. But not anymore.”

Zelda whined and nudged Flixie’s hand. She didn’t pull away.

“I should forget you,” she whispered.

“But I’ll remember. Every leaf. Every laugh.” He took her hand and placed something in it—a sycamore seed.

“For when you need to find me again.”

Then he vanished. Not walked away. Vanished.

Flixie stood there, heart pounding, the seed warm in her palm, as the wind carried the last of the autumn leaves around her feet.

And somehow, she knew she’d see him again—when the forest turned gold once more.