Silver Trees with Golden Leaves

The room’s windows were bare, and looked out on the same forest depicted in the massive piece of art facing it. A young musician, his blonde curls the color of autumn leaves, sat at the black piano running his fingers over the keys aimlessly. He’d found the hotel after finishing a long and trying tour, and was happy to be here, unrecognized, unknown, and undisturbed for a short while. As music spilled forth from his hands, he thought he saw, from the corner of his eye, a figure with long dark hair the rich color of newly tilled soil, darting from tree to tree. He heard a whispered, “Catch me,” and glanced up, but the room was empty. And the forest, in winter, was bare.