The brown grass crunches under your feet as you walk into the desolate field. All is silent. It’s that in between time of year, when animals have burrowed into the ground, ready for winter, and frost covers the land. It’s the time of year when it’s too cold for autumn, but the snow is yet to fall. Now, all seems dead. No flowers flourish under the bright sun, and no leaves rustle gently in the warm breeze. Instead the flowers curl over, brown and fragile, and the leaves lay lifeless, their final resting places under the trees they once thrived upon. The mid-afternoon sun is hidden behind a thick veil of clouds that spreads across the sky, trapping everyone under its reach in a cold, gray prison. You blow into your hands in an attempt to warm them, but to no avail. The temperature is dropping. A lone crow lets out a long, solemn caw. An attempt to fill to void of silence. You fix your hat and start towards the winding path that leads through the forest and, eventually, takes you home.