Page 10 of Until the Last Leaf Falls

The trees remembered.

And Niles had just experienced the memory of the tree that had given its life to become this beam.

“The trees remember. Of course, they do,” Niles muttered, his rational mind cutting through the unaccustomed euphoria.

He had no explanation for his experience. Had he been dreaming? Had the stress of an unexpected social interaction finally unhinged him? Or, more tantalisingly, had Orren’s presence somehow… unlocked a latent ability?

The only way to find out was to test it.

He pushed himself upright and shuffled to the back door, muscles aching as if he’d done something extra strenuous. Outside, the sky blushed with the first hints of twilight, and Niles headed straight to his glade. He’d planted these trees. Their histories were known to him from sapling to slender trunk.

Niles approached the birch, its white bark gleaming in the twilight. His heart a drumbeat against his ribs, he took a deep, shuddering breath—and laid his palm flat against the cool bark.

And he listened.

The Weight of Memories

Niles expected to spot changes when he faced his shaving mirror the next morning, but he only saw dark-circled grey eyes and a crease between his brows that announced his headache. Listening to his trees had absorbed his focus for hours until he’d been stiff from sitting and so cold his teeth had chattered like magpies.

A long hot shower, his largest mug of hot chocolate, and curling into a tight ball under his quilt and two extra blankets hadn’t completely banished the shivers. Even thoughts of Orren hadn’t be able to do that. Sleep had been slow in coming, and leaving his cocoon when his alarm prompted him had been a struggle.

Orren’s gift—if it had been a gift—was no easy one, because twelve hours later, Niles was still drowning in images and impressions, unable to make sense of it all. Did trees store memories in their trunks and branches? Had touching the beam let him sense those memories? Or had he drifted off into a fanciful dream, prompted by the conversations he and Orren had shared?

And what about the trees in his glade? The images that had come to his mind when he touched them had been familiar, but also not. The hues of the seasons, his renovations from a different angle, curiosity and excitement when he planted new trees. None of those had been his memories, and seeing himself had been the most disconcerting thing of all.

Niles didn’t know what to make of the information he now had.

He hoped Orren would know.

The weather had changed overnight. A blustery wind tore through the clouds and threw rain with abandon. Niles skirted the glade, keeping to the covered walk that ringed the courtyard, to where Orren waited beside the door to the library.

Not seeing him sitting in the glade was unusual. His posture was stiffer, too, and the way he hugged his stack of books made Niles think of the discomfort of attending networking meetings. But he had come, and relief sent Niles’s heart into overdrive. He wanted to hug the silly man, but what he said was: “Look at you all wet and dripping! Why didn’t you shelter under the carriage arch if you couldn’t be bothered to knock on my door?”

Orren blinked. “I… wasn’t sure of my welcome.”

He sounded so hesitant the need to wrap his arms around him almost ate Niles alive. “Of course you’re welcome,” he blurted, unlocking the library door and ushering Orren inside. “I don’t mind if you’re not human. I enjoy your company.”

“That’s good to know.” Orren laughed, then, warm and joyful.

When he held out his hands, Niles took them and being pulled close to Orren felt like the most natural thing in the world, just like sharing coffee and hot chocolate on the big sofa in the library. It was this familiarity that made Niles pluck up the courage to ask. “Are you? Human, I mean?”

“I was human, once,” Orren admitted. “I don’t remember all that much of that life. The books, so full of memories. And the trees.”

“Now you’re immortal?”

“No. Everything dies. But I don’t live like you do, birth to death. Not anymore.”

Niles failed to imagine a non-linear life. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, and stepped closer, a dish towel in his hands. “Here. Sit. I’ll dry your hair while you explain.”

Orren sank onto the sofa. “Most life is linear, but there are a few of us who accept different tasks. Autumn is the time for memories, and I’ve watched autumn arrive and depart more times than I care to count. I always watch, you know? Families in windows. Couples on benches.” He paused and reached up to where Niles was rubbing at his hair to stroke his fingertips over the back of Niles’s hand. “I’ve never been invited inside before.”

The ache in his voice shoved a giant lump into Niles’s throat. He swallowed it down, needing to speak his truth, however much it embarrassed him. “I’m glad you came," he said. “To the library. That first day. I’m glad you stayed.”

Orren's breath hitched. “So am I,” he near-whispered. “Believe me, so am I.”

Niles had a myriad of questions. He shelved them all. Once Orren’s hair was as dry as he could get it, he set the towel aside and headed for the coffeemaker, to let hot chocolate and coffee restore normality.

“If you don’t live the way I understand living, then what do you do?” he asked once their drinks were made.