The Man in the Autumn Light

 I remember the warmth of that Nashville afternoon as clearly as the silk scarf I wore — black with a pattern of faded florals in brown, navy, and cream. It was 1995, the fall of Memnoch the Devil, and I had gone alone to the signing. The air outside the little bookstore was restless, full of chatter and turning leaves, and I remember thinking how ordinary the day seemed — no candles, no velvet drapes, none of Anne’s gothic spectacle. Just sunlight, the scent of ink and paper, and a slow-moving line of admirers waiting to meet a woman who could make the dead feel more alive than the living. 

I had been standing for hours. My black leather pants had begun to cling, the silk shirt soft against my skin, the scarf draped loose around my neck. I leaned against the brick wall beside a girl who talked about Anne’s novels and our favorites, our words tumbling out in easy, polite rhythm. I remember nodding, smiling — and then, as if a breeze had changed direction, something shifted.

He came walking across the parking lot toward me. Tall. Dark-haired. The sunlight glinted through the layered strands that fell across his forehead, and his skin — my God, his skin — was flawless. Pale, luminous, like light through marble. He wore dark sunglasses, and even from where I stood I could tell there was no imperfection on his face. Not a shadow of whisker, not a freckle, not a single mark. 

He stopped in front of me, and the air changed. I’ve always been sensitive to electricity — when I step out of my car under the power lines near work, I can feel it, a low hum that makes my skin prickle. That’s what it felt like when I looked at him. That same quiet vibration rising under my skin, like the world had turned into static and I was caught inside it.

 He looked down at me. I looked up at him. We held each other’s gaze for only seconds, but it stretched into something longer — not time, exactly, but a pause between heartbeats that felt infinite. The girl beside me laughed softly and said something — an introduction, a name: Rick. He spoke too, his voice rough at the edges, not deep but textured, like velvet worn smooth in places. I don’t remember the words we said. Maybe we talked about Anne, or her books, or the line itself. I only remember the pull — that quiet, terrifying magnetism that made me afraid to touch him because I thought I might feel an actual spark.

 We stood like that for what must have been two hours. Two hours of small talk, of silence, of pretending I wasn’t hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. He smiled once — not a grin, not a laugh, but a smirk that curved his mouth in the most devilishly beautiful way. I smiled back, the same restrained echo, like a reflection in dark glass.

 When it was finally time to go inside, we moved together, though I can’t remember walking. The line carried us. I remember meeting Anne — how kind she was, how she looked at me like she truly saw me. I remember clutching my book afterward, the signature still wet. But what lingers most is the moment outside after it was all over.

 The air had cooled; the wind caught my scarf and lifted it like a black wing. I walked toward my car, feeling the silk brush my skin, my hair tugged by the breeze. I turned once before opening the door, and he was there — watching me. I met his gaze, dark glasses hiding what I wanted most to see. For a heartbeat, maybe two, we stood caught in that same suspended current. Then I got in my car, still holding the book to my chest, and drove away. 

On the way home, I thought of him — the way his presence filled the air, how my body hummed as if I’d stood too close to lightning. I was married then. Morality, responsibility, all those familiar words pressed their weight against the wonder of what had just happened. But still, the thought came — what if? 

I never saw him again. 

Years later, unpacking boxes, I found the scarf. The edges were frayed, the silk softened with time, but when I lifted it, the air seemed to remember. I could feel that faint electricity again, the memory of autumn sun and flawless skin and the whisper of something not entirely human standing before me.

 It was only a moment, but it burned itself into my memory — bright, electric, eternal. And even now, when the light hits just right, I swear I can still feel the current dancing across my skin.

--R

The Street Where Autumn Still Lives

 

Introduction:

Every year when the air cools and the leaves begin to fall, I’m reminded that memories often live in the smallest, simplest things — the smell of cut grass, the sound of wind chimes, the first chill that makes you reach for a sweater. Sometimes those tiny moments open a door to the past, and suddenly you’re not just remembering — you’re there again.

The Street in My Memory

Sometimes the simplest things can take you back to a place in your memories—especially this time of year, when the morning sun takes its time to rise.

I sat looking out a black window in the early morning hours. As the sun began to climb, so did my window, the cool morning air drifting seamlessly into my office. It made me reach for a sweater and pour another cup of coffee to quiet the chill.

I turned back to my computer—time often slips away when I work. I like to stay busy, sometimes forcefully so, especially these past few months, when my emotions have been in overdrive.

Then the wind caught the chimes on the front porch.

The soft, unexpected sound made me pause.

Outside, the leaves were swirling downward in a lyrical dance, the smell of fall filling my senses—a mix of dust, air, and earth.

And just like that, I was back in my childhood—

to the little colonial town with the tree-lined streets and old homes that seemed to whisper stories of their own.

I could almost hear the tap, tap, tap of my Mary Janes as I skipped over the cracks in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was the long way to school, but I didn’t mind.

Light filtered through the trees in the early morning; the dew on the grass caught the sun and sparkled like diamonds. I wore the pink poncho my grandmother knitted me—I still have it tucked away in a box somewhere. It was still too warm for my faux-fur coat, surely a hand-me-down, but I felt special anyway.

Down the old sidewalk I went, kicking at the leaves as I skipped. The houses stood tall in their grand splendor, their yards full of color and the scent of autumn and dew. I can still hear the rustling of leaves as cars passed by, but I was oblivious to everything except that moment—walking beneath a canopy of trees, the morning wind sending a flurry of gold and red around me like a snowstorm of autumn.

That memory is where the child in me still lives—the part filled with wonder and enchantment. Even now, I can feel that giddy little girl again, skipping without a care in the world.

Then a phone rings in the distance, pulling me back to the present. I hit the answer button, and the memory fades—like the wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle.

But even as I greet my customer on the other end of the line, I feel it linger—

a quiet peace, a lightness of heart,

and the warmth of home, carried on an autumn breeze.

 

Each fall when the wind moves through the trees and the world turns gold, I go home again — not in miles, but in memory.

And that’s enough.