And when the leaves begin to change,
I’ll be there
by the time they start to fall.
Not early, not late—
just in that quiet moment
when the world exhales,
and summer finally lets go.
I’ll return like a ghost
you almost stopped waiting for,
carrying the kind of silence
that only comes from distance.
Maybe you won’t recognize me at first—
grief weathers people
the way autumn weathers trees.
But I’ll know you,
by the way your eyes still soften
when the wind carries something familiar.
And even if nothing is the same,
even if the cold moves in too fast,
I’ll still keep my promise—
to show up
right before everything fades.
Through the Fog 