Monday Microburst: The Last Swing of Autumn
Magical. Mystical. Meaningful. Monday Microburst
Every week, I’ll share a tiny tale from Plymbury—the coastal New England town where all my stories live. These moments are short enough to read over morning coffee or tea, yet just long enough to leave a trace of magic in your day. I hope they become a small ritual you look forward to each Monday.
Design by Ibethvilla
The Last Swing of Autumn
Crista stumbled upon an old, forgotten swing deep in the forest, just as the leaves turned to gold—ready for change. The ropes were weathered but strong, and the wooden seat still bore the faint etching of two initials carved years ago: hers and his.
She brushed away the crisp leaves that had gathered where they once sat, the air thick with the scent of earth and autumn goodbyes. For a long moment, she stood there, listening to the wind whisper through the branches. It almost sounded like young love’s laughter.
When she sat down, the swing moved with the gentlest creak—the kind that held a thousand unspoken memories. The forest swayed with her, and in that amber light she felt him near, like warmth that lingers long after the fire’s burned down.
When she stood to leave—her final goodbye to such cherished memories—the air had shifted. The wind was colder now, and the world seemed ready to turn the page. She let the swing go, watching it drift once, twice, then still—just as a single leaf broke free and spun toward her open hand.
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