leaves

When Herb opens the door, there’s another bundle of branches on the step. The third that week, according to his count, and he smiles as he bends down to pick it up.

The leaves this time are a gorgeous green, running red toward the tips before flaring yellow—a pattern of foliage he has, once again, never seen before now. And even before he can bring them up to his face, he can smell their fragrance—strong, but airy, with a faint tang—and knows that, like the others, they will make a tea he’d only tasted in his dreams.

He looks toward the edge of the forest. The last two times, he’d noticed a clover tree that hadn’t been there before, tucked between a couple pines and just barely hidden from view. And both times, as he’d walked back into his house and shut the door behind him, he’d heard a light, lilting melody floating through the air. And both times, when he’d left the house again to head for his greenhouse, the clover tree was already gone.

This time is no different. He sees them in their usual place, their brilliant green obvious despite the shade, and grins to himself. But he stops before he can turn around. Turns, instead, to face the tree, and gives them a wave.

“Thank you!” he calls. And gestures toward the door. “Um—do you wanna come in? We can have the tea together! I—I mean, if you want!”

For a moment, nothing happens. Herb wonders if he’d somehow imagined that this tree enjoyed moving around on their own accord and bringing him new tea leaves and singing the most gorgeous melodies he’d ever heard—but there’s a shifting in their branches, and he watches as the tree gradually, beautifully morphs into an equally beautiful man. And he has to stare—at the man’s grin as he peeks out from behind an evergreen, at the sweep of stark white hair that caresses his face, at the emerald green of his eye that brightens as he approaches.

“I’d love to,” the man replies, just feet away, and his voice is just like one of his songs.