Under the Red-Leaf Tree

Under the red‑leaf tree by the Forgotten Battlefield, the wind tastes of iron and paint. Verso found us a quiet patch of earth; we lay your metal fingers down like a prayer. Lune’s breath trembles, Sciel holds me still, and I whisper, “Monsieur G, rest here a while.” Your journal weighs warm in my pack— oil and ink, the smell of home. I open to the words you taught me: “For those who come after.” For those who come after— I’ll write the miles you could not. For those who come after— I’ll learn the names of every ruin. If the Monolith steals our years, I will spend mine like fire— for those who come after. I remember the rooftop rose for Sophie, how you smiled and lied that you weren’t scared. We threw stones together by the water, counting ripples like futures you wanted for me. Lune told me you stood at the falls, pistol shaking, heart heavier than armor— and how she took your hand and turned you back toward the light. You said we’d cross with “Florrie,” laughing at luck we didn’t have. At Stone Wave Cliffs the white‑haired man came, and your arm burned its last to save me. For those who come after— I’ll carry the Converter and your pen. For those who come after— I’ll trace your maps in my sleep. If I falter, I’ll ask the wind how engineers grieve— for those who come after. You built domes and farms for children you’d never meet, taught me stubbornness, taught me to breathe before I throw. Now I bury brass where a body should be, the soil closing like a music‑box lid. Emma will hear what I can’t sing yet; your apprentices will find my pages. For those who come after— Monsieur G, I’ll keep the lights on. For those who come after— I’ll walk until the paint runs clean. Under this red‑leaf tree, I promise: we go on, we go on— for those who come after. If you ask, “One more rock?” I’ll answer, “When the sea is quiet.” Until then, sleep— your hand is safe, and I’ll do the throwing for us.