Fall slipped into the valley quietly, without much fuss. You wouldn’t notice it at first, it starts as a dry murmur in the vines and trees, a restless shiver through the leaves saying, it’s time.
Then the slopes turn gold and crimson, the color of old coins, and rust on iron gates. The sun falls sooner each day. When it brushes the hillsides now, the vineyards catch fire, with colours too sharp to last, as if the world had been overpainted by someone drunk on light.
Fog climbs from the river in the evenings. It doesn’t hurry. It rolls slow between the rows of vines, nosing into the courtyards, thickening in the alleys where the footsteps of late walkers lose their sound. The air carries the sour-sweet stench of crushed grapes, fermenting must, half promise, half rot.
They say that autumn brings life back to the valley: the new wines, the visitors, the music in the park. Laughter leaking from the taverns until the fog smothers it. But if you stay late enough, if you stand by the river when the moon hangs low, you might hear something else beneath the water, a voice, maybe wind rustling in the vines, maybe something older, patient, waiting its turn.
