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Her head falls onto my shoulder. And I feel like I should ask her back.

Are you happy, Lenny?

But for some reason, I don't. I can't.

Not because I don't want the answer. But because I think I'm still afraid to hear it.

Instead, I press my lips to her hair.

Lenny hums and snuggles in closer. "What a view," she whispers.

"Yeah," I say, still looking at her.

"Hell of a view."

20

Lenny

Iforgot that fall in Mage Hollow has a smell. It sounds a certain way that spring and summer and definitely the silence of winter doesn't. And it looks like the whole town has decorated for the season.

Probably because they have.

And maybe the big cities do too, and I'm always just too tucked away close to whichever hospital I'm assigned to notice.

But I don't think so.

The leaves gather here—there are enough trees that actually exist outside of just the parks, and the ones that pile up aren't swept away by city cleaners or run over by rush hour traffic. They sit in small mounds and big heaps full of warm colors that settle in as decor in the background of our everyday life.

Every mom-and-pop bakery, coffeehouse, and diner floods their menus with pumpkin spice this and caramel apple that, and I swear, you could stick a wick in the square and call us a candle from September to November.

Something like Cozy Cardigan Weather or Grandma's Pie Kitchen.

The trees whistle here too—and so do the people just happy to be milling about in their high boots and flannels. And there's always something going on—pumpkin carving contests, apple bobbing, cornhole tournaments that even I used to take way too seriously.

There's a specific soundtrack to Mage once the nights begin cooling and the scarecrows start to make their appearance. It's like the squeals and laughter that come when school's out and the sun starts to blaze. But softer. Slower.

More autumn than summer.

"So, how long have they been doing this cider festival?"

I glance over at Bridget, pulling the sleeves of my own flannel over my hands. It's cooler today than it's been recently. Maybe because fall's finally here to stay or because there really is something to that Golden City sun.

Or maybe—just maybe—Mage has a fall feeling too.

One that still sends a chill down my spine.

"This is only the second year," Bridge says, stepping forward in Mrs. Joplin's line—the first booth we stopped at. "I didn't come last year, though." She wiggles her brows. "Honeymoon."

We take another step forward as Mr. Brooks gets his cider and darts back toward his bookstore where he'll no doubt retreat for the next four to six hours.

"So what? One day someone just thought, 'you know what Mage could really use… another festival.' Lobster Fest, Hollow Hearts—any of the countless others weren't enough?"

She laughs, running her finger along the underside of her orange Mage Hollow Cider Fest wristband. "I guess not," she shrugs. "But hey, they're not getting any complaints from me. I've heard you can get most of these things spiked."

"You sure can!"

Mrs. Joplin's friendly and slightly rickety voice bellows toward us as Billy, also known as the town tubador—and no, I'm not missing letters. He doesn't sing so much as he plays brass instruments on random corners of the town—takes his cider and saunters away.