It was early. The kind of early where the light doesn’t know what to do with itself. It hung there, soft and pale, not quite warm, not quite cold. I stepped outside with my coffee and the dog, and for the first time in a long time, I felt it.
It didn’t hit like a storm. It wasn’t loud or proud. It didn’t shout. It came quiet. In the space between a breath and a breeze. The air held something different. Thinner, maybe. Cleaner. A little slower.
The dog didn’t notice. Remi ran like always, nose to the ground, chasing ghosts in the grass.
I stood on the porch and waited for the warmth that never came. The sun was out, but it didn’t mean much anymore. That was the first sign.
It wasn't the kind of thing most people talk about. Not really.
People rush this time of year. School supplies in the stores in July. Halloween by August. They’re always looking forward. Never at what’s right in front of them.
But I stood there, and I felt it.
Fall.
Not full-on. Just a hint. Like a whisper in a crowded room.
It’s hard to explain unless you’ve learned to sit still long enough. Unless you’ve been alone long enough to notice the way the seasons shift—not all at once, but like a man slowly deciding to leave the room.
I took a sip of coffee. It tasted the same—black, bitter, a little burnt. I liked it that way. It reminded me of home.
The dog barked at a squirrel. The neighbor started his truck. The world moved, but it didn’t notice.
That’s the thing.
Nobody noticed.
They walked to their cars in hoodies without thinking about it. They said, “Feels cooler today,” and then looked at their phones. They complained about the chill in the mornings and turned the heat on at night.
But they didn’t notice.
Not the way the light hits the side of the trees now. Not the way the leaves have stopped growing and just sit there, tired, waiting to let go.
I saw a single red leaf on the maple. One. That’s all it takes.
That’s how it starts.
I thought about saying something to someone. But I didn’t.
People don’t want to hear about leaves. They want headlines. Bright colors. New seasons.
Fall isn’t new. It’s old. It’s what happens when things start to let go.
I walked down to the edge of the yard where the pine needles always pile up. The grass was damp. The way it gets when the nights begin to cool and the earth starts to remember that it’s alive.
I stood there for a long time. The birds were quieter. Not gone, just thoughtful.
Everything was thoughtful.
I thought about how long it had taken me to notice these things. How many years I had spent rushing from one thing to the next, never stopping long enough to taste the season I was in.
It took the divorce to slow me down.
It took a major bike accident to remind me how to live.
It took the silence after the kids were gone.
It took the long mornings with nothing but the dog and the sky and the same cup of coffee.
It’s strange how pain makes you present.
You think it will break you. And sometimes it does. But in the cracks, you start to see things. Little things.
Like how fall doesn’t come all at once.
Like how nobody notices until the leaves are already gone.
I sat on the porch steps. The wood was cool under my hands.
I thought about time.
How we beg it to move faster. How we cheer for Friday. How we skip ahead to the next season before this one’s even done.
But not today.
Today I was here.
Today I felt the season changing in real time.
The second sign was the smell. It wasn’t firewood or pumpkin or any of those things they sell in stores. It was the smell of dry grass, of something fading. Of the earth pulling the blanket up to its chin.
It smelled like goodbye.
But not in a sad way. Just honest.
Like a man tipping his hat and walking away without a word.
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The third sign came when a chill wind picked up. Not strong. Just enough to remind you it’s there.
I closed my eyes and let it pass over me.
The breeze moved the leaves just slightly, and you could hear it now. That soft hush. Like pages turning.
The sound of a chapter ending.
Later, someone said to me, “It got colder.”
That’s all they said. Three words.
And I smiled.
Because someone noticed.
Someone else was here, too.
Not rushing. Not posting. Just feeling.
It made me think maybe we’re not all gone. Not all lost to screens and noise and the next big thing.
Maybe some of us are still paying attention.
Maybe that’s enough.
The dog came back to me, tail wagging, nose wet from the grass. Remi looked up like he always does, as if I held the meaning of the universe in my hands.
I didn’t.
But I held a cup of coffee and a morning that felt different.
And maybe that was enough, too.
I looked up at the trees. Not all of them had changed. Most of them were still green. But if you looked closely, really closely, you could see it.
Edges tinged with gold. Some leaves curled just slightly.
The beginning of the end.
The start of something quiet and beautiful.
I didn’t take a picture. I didn’t share it.
I just sat with it.
The first sign of fall.
The first deep breath in months.
It made me think of the kids.
How fast they’d grown. How you don’t notice until one day they’re taller than you and using words you don’t understand.
How they go from needing you to barely answering your texts.
Like the leaves.
One day green. The next gone.
But not really gone.
Just changing.
Just moving forward like they’re supposed to.
And maybe that’s what fall teaches best.
That change is quiet. That endings are gentle if you let them be. That everything beautiful fades. And that’s okay.
I finished my coffee. The sky was brighter now.
I stood up, dusted my jeans. Remi looked at me like it was time to go back inside.
And it was.
But I took one more look.
Not because I needed to.
Because I wanted to.
Because I was here.
And I noticed.
Even if no one else did.
— Rinaldo
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Inspiration for This Story.
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Yesterday’s conversation inspired me to write about noticing the first sign of fall and the importance of being present. If you notice a trend, many of my Notes and posts begin this way—sparked by these small but meaningful exchanges. They all stem from here, with you.
— Rinaldo
Misses someone and felt sad reading this. Accepting the inevitable.
Great piece! And a reminder of how we need to appreciate the small things that we take for granted.