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Sometimes I forget how different the world used to be. Then a song comes on the radio—maybe The Cure, maybe R.E.M., or the haunting echo of Siouxsie and the Banshees—and I’m suddenly 13 again, the key to the house jangling in my backpack, walking home alone after school with nobody waiting but the TV and a box of cereal.

Fall has a way of slipping in quietly—one morning, the air just feels different. Not cold exactly, but crisp, like it’s been filtered overnight. I stepped outside today and it hit me all at once: that familiar scent of dried leaves and distant woodsmoke, the kind that makes you pause and breathe a little deeper. The sky was that perfect shade of autumn blue, stretched wide and clean, like it had been rinsed clear of summer’s haze.

Today felt like the end. Not just of the day, or the weekend, but of the season—the kind of ending you don’t really say out loud, but feel deep in your chest.