The garden was quieter now.
Most leaves had fallen, carpeting the stone path in rust-colored curls and brittle gold. The air smelled like damp earth and the end of something. I tightened Edward's scarf gently around his neck, even though he hadn't asked, and tucked the blanket tighter over his legs where they rested in the wheelchair.
"Are you trying to strangle me or just practising your knots in case I become truly unbearable?" he asked, dry as ever.
I smiled faintly. "I'll let you guess."
His laugh was soft, winded, but real. It warmed something in my chest.
We started down the path slowly. I kept one hand on the chair's handle, the other in my coat pocket. The wheels creaked every few steps, an old sound that somehow fit into the place's rhythm. Everything about the garden had quieted into that last gasp of autumn, muted, resigned, still beautiful in its own way.
"You know," he said, not even bothering with sarcasm this time, "you've become quite the nurse."
