Amber Light and Falling Leaves
Kerry Taylor
Sitting on the wooden park bench, she basks in the golden filter of autumn. Leaves drift down from above, settling on the ground in a sea of auburn, ochre and scarlet. Each one unique, like pages from a book. A mild breeze flows through the chilly air, carrying with it sweet, earthy aromas. The scent of distant bonfires evokes images of families gathered around toasting marshmallows on sticks. Leaves swirl in a hypnotic dance along the footpath, as if overjoyed to be free. They flip and turn, creating a rustling autumnal melody. A golden lab barks with excitement as it darts through a pile of leaves, children squealing with joy nearby.
She sips her roasted hazelnut coffee and savors the festive flavor she’s been craving since spring, the steam giving her nose a brief reprieve from the chill.
As the sun dips low, marking the end of a bright, crisp day, she drains the last of her seasonal latte. Snuggling further into her chunky knitted jumper, she shuffles her booted feet through the leaves and out of the park. The intricate wrought-iron gates that tower high above frame the pretty town beyond.
The streets of the small English town are quiet this Sunday afternoon. Its charm lies in the winding cobblestone street that run past old shops and cottages. As she passes a crooked pub, she peers in through the steamed windows at the revelers huddled inside. Laughter spills out with the scent of Sunday Roast, gravy and ale. Across the narrow street, the local coffee shop hums with conversation. The hiss of a milk frother is distant behind the fogged glass.
Before she heads home, she dips into the local bookstore to pick up her next read. Pumpkins and gourds are displayed in the window, an assortment of shapes in hues of oranges and greens. They spread further into the store, sprawled in corners and perched on tables. Some are carved into smiling lanterns that glow with tealights in the dimming daylight. She breathes in the musty smell of paper, dust and imagination. The smell found only in bookstores and libraries – the scent of infinite stories. She beams with enchantment as she gazes at the mahogany shelves lined with books. A seasonal recommendation captures her attention. Its rom-com cover dotted with gilded leaves and curling text sets the scene of a whimsical tale.
New book in hand, she meanders through the narrow streets towards home. Gas streetlights blink awake one by one. The wind sweeps through the streets, and the sky is bruised with the promise of rain. Turning at the red post box on the corner, the quaint, chocolate-box cottage comes into view. Its thatched roof and two crooked chimneys stand proudly against the twilight. Higgledy-piggledy windows set deep in the whitewashed stone glitter in the hazy sunset. Set within a short stone wall, the little blue gate creaks as she pushes it open. She follows the cobblestone pathway through the garden, once fragrant and vibrant, now sleeps under a blanket of fallen leaves. Small birds chirp from the bare branches of a tree, having feasted on nearby elderberries. A squirrel darts through overgrown grass, shifting leaves in search of buried treasures. The red wooden door of her cottage is welcoming as the growing gusts threaten to lift the heavy bronze door knocker.
Turning the key in the lock, the familiar clunk settles reassuringly in her chest. Warm air greets her along with the comforting scent of freshly baked bread that drifts from the kitchen. A flick of the lamp switch, and the hallway is illuminated in a honeyed light. Her boots land with a thud, and she tucks them under the wooden shoe rack. The terracotta stone beneath her feet is cold through her thin socks, and she steps onto the green patterned rug. From the woven basket near the front door, she pulls out a pair of chunky knitted socks and slips them on. Warmth blooms and she wiggles her now mustard, auburn and burgundy clad toes as they begin to thaw. She follows the long rug that stretches through the hallway to the kitchen. The moment her feet leave its edge, the cold bites through her thick socks.
Amber light spills from mismatched lamps. The low beams and uneven golden walls give the room a gentle, lived-in charm. Crossing to the oven, she pops on oven mitts adorned with faded orange pumpkins and curling vines. The intoxicating smell of bread engulfs her in an embrace as the oven opens. A smile plays on her lips as she places the loaf on a wire rack. From the fridge, she retrieves her homemade tomato and basil soup. The silken liquid glistens as it’s poured into a saucepan. As the low flame heats the soup, notes of basil begin to fill the air. Under the gaze of a bouquet of sunflowers, she sets aside a deep bowl and pulls a breadknife free from a polka-dot vase. The bread yields to the sharp blade; faint clouds of steam uncurl. She carves a generous chunk, slathers it with salted butter and arranges the rustic wedge on a plate beneath the bowl. The soup is simmering; thick bubbles pop on the surface. She pours the glossy soup into the waiting bowl. Steam erupts above it, further melting the golden butter at its side. Finishing with a swirl of cream, she admires her simple yet hearty creation. She sends a request to the ether and notes of jazz fill the cottage as she grabs a spoon and a tea towel.
Balancing both bowl and bread carefully, she dances to the dining table and takes a seat. The mint-green paint of the chair giving way to the oak and various layers of paint beneath, whispering stories of previous lives. Fragrant plumes curl up from the bowl as her spoon plunges into the soup. She blows at the scorching liquid in time to the music floating through the cottage before she sips. The floral notes of the tomatoes and the aromatic herbs burst across her tastebuds, mirroring the run of the saxophone that fills the air. Her mouth is left tingling in pleasure, her body warming from the inside out. Memories of her grandma flood her mind – a frilly apron tied around her waist as she stands on a stool and stirs the pot – she smiles fondly. Tearing a chunk of bread, she dips it into the soup, allowing it to soak before popping it into her mouth. The bread is rough against her tongue and has a satisfying bite to it. The soft center is laden with rich salted butter, cream and tomatoey goodness. Sighing contently, she savors the texture and comforting nutty flavors before it fills her grumbling stomach.
Leaving the bowl and plate to soak in the sink, she makes a mug of cocoa, heaped with marshmallows. Oversized mug in hand and new book in the other, she heads to the living room. The layered patterned rugs stretch over the stone floor in a blur of orange, red and beige. Trinkets line each surface, glinting in the low lamp light. Throws sit rolled in a basket, ready to bring warmth and comfort. The room is busy, without being stifling – welcoming and lived in. She sets the book on her favorite armchair, nestled under the swing-arm lamp.
The music fades to the rush of the flame as a match strikes. Autumnal-scented candles of spiced pumpkin and apple pie are dotted around the room – at the center of the coffee table, on shelves in high corners, on short tables where her cocoa now cools. The candles are lit one by one. Pulsing amber creates shadows and intricate cozy dwellings, bringing the room to life. She kneels in front of the fireplace and piles the dried wood high, alternating with kindling and poking tinder amongst the stacks. Striking a long match, she feeds it through the wood pile, catching the tinder. The flame glows deep within the stack, a pocket of warmth which spreads from tinder to kindling. A crack sounds as the wood catches and the fire takes hold.
Her cat begins to purr from where he’s curled in a black-and-white ball on the sofa. He blinks lovingly as he stretches, his white tummy fluffy and soft. He curls his paws across his powder pink nose before he settles again, toasty near the fire. Sinking into the checked armchair, she flicks on the overhead lamp, setting the space in an aura of gold, just bright enough to see words on a page. The soft patter of rain begins to murmur at the window, and she drapes a soft woolen blanket over her legs. She tears herself away from the chapter, already enthralled, to take a sip of cocoa. The rich, velvety chocolate washes over her tongue, the marshmallows a sticky, sweet treat after each sip. The heat seeps into her fingers and palms as she clutches the mug and breathes in the chocolate laced plumes. Over the rim of her mug, she watches the embers in the fireplace dance. She listens to the calming beat of the rain, punctuated by the purr of a happy cat. Outside, the rain continues to pour and the wind howls at the windows – but inside the small cottage, all is warm, cozy, and still.
Kerry Taylor
Kerry Taylor is a self-published author of two novels and one novella, with many more stories brewing in her imagination. Writing has always been where she feels most at home, and she loves exploring atmosphere, emotion, and what makes a great character. When she isn’t writing, you’ll find her curled up with a good book and her cat, wandering through nature, or finding inspiration in her travels. She loves discovering beautiful stories in the simplicities of life.