Last night was the first true frost. This morning it feels too cold to be on a bike; winter is imminent. I pedal upwards, past quaint homes, through the Cemetery and up into the trees. The old railroad tracks are painted with leaves. They sweep into the air as I pass. Cold wind coaxes tears from my eyes, stealing my vision. I shift into my big ring, picking up speed.

I catch a glimpse of the buildings below. This town is tucked into the hills. Leaves fall in earnest; the trees are bare and cold. The lake below is frigid and smoke rises from many chimneys. The sun is low, but light has spread on the mountain across town. A golden frill of larch trees runs up its shoulder.

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