I found her in the alleyway with an eraser in one hand and a drying paintbrush in the other, the autumn colors clumped and desperate on the end.
“Aren’t we a little early?” I asked innocently, but the scent of the night’s chill was still heavy on her lips, and her stare rested on me only vaguely after those thousand miles crossed.
“They’re stubborn,” she sighed, “but the disease spreads quick once it catches on. You’ll see.”
And with that she turned, patient as a sunrise, to the trees spread out overhead, dabbing cautiously at the browning leaves.