The letter was signed with a flourish.

It was a Tuesday. The rain had not stopped.

Eleanor sat at her desk. The wood was oak. It was old. It was scarred.

She held the fern.

It was a Boston fern. Small. Green. Alive.

She had bought it at the market. It had cost four dollars. She had paid with a coin. The coin was warm. The air in the shop was cold.

She carried it home. She put it on the shelf. She watered it. The water was clear. The leaves were wet.

She looked at the fern.

It was her.

She was a scholar. She wrote about history. She wrote about the war. She wrote about the men who won. She wrote about the men who lost. She did not write about the fern. She did not write about the dirt.

Her husband was Julian.

Julian was tall. Julian was kind. Julian was a doctor. He saved lives. He cut open chests. He stitched them shut. He smelled of antiseptic. He smelled of iron.

He loved her. He loved her with a fire. He touched her face. He kissed her hands. He held her at night. He did not let go.

He was the sun. She was the leaf.

But the leaf needs the sun. The leaf needs the soil. The soil is dark. The soil is wet. The soil is full of worms.

Eleanor looked at the fern again.

The leaves were drooping.

One leaf had turned yellow.

It was a small leaf. It was near the top. It was bright. It was fading.

She touched it. It crumbled.

It fell.

It lay on the white pot.

It was dead.

She picked it up. She held it in her palm. It was dry. It was brittle. It was nothing.

She put it in the bin.

She did not feel sad. She felt empty.

She went to work.

The university was a large building. It was brick. It was grey. It was cold.

The office was on the fourth floor. The window looked out on the yard. The yard was brown. The trees were bare.

Her colleague was Dr. Aris Thorne.

Aris was a man. He was young. He was sharp. He had a suit. It was black. It was thin. It fit him well.

He was the department head.

He sat in a large chair. He read a file. He did not look up.

Eleanor placed her paper on the desk.

The paper was thick. It was dense. It was careful. It was true.

Aris looked up.

He smiled.

It was a small smile. It was cold.

He took the paper.

He read the first line.

He stopped.

He looked at her.

He did not speak.

He put the paper down.

He leaned back.

He crossed his arms.

The room was quiet.

The clock ticked.

The rain tapped on the glass.

Aris spoke.

His voice was low.

His voice was smooth.

He said the work was interesting.

He said the work was new.

He said the work was wrong.

He said the dates were off.

He said the sources were weak.

He said the tone was bitter.

He said the tone was unprofessional.

He said she was angry.

He said she was not a scholar.

He said she was a nurse.

He said she should go back to the hospital.

He said she should care for the sick.

He said she should not care for the dead.

Eleanor did not speak.

She looked at the fern.

The fern was on the shelf.

The other yellow leaf was there.

It was falling.

It fell.

It hit the floor.

It made a sound.

It was a small sound.

It was a dry sound.

Aris was still speaking.

He was talking about promotion.

He was talking about tenure.

He was talking about power.

He was talking about silence.

He was telling her to be silent.

He was telling her to be small.

He was telling her to be green.

He was telling her to be a leaf.

Eleanor looked at the fern.

The fern was wearing out.

The center was brown.

The edges were brown.

The whole plant was brown.

It was dying.

It was dying because she had over-watered it.

It was dying because she had not watered it enough.

It was dying because she was watching it.

It was dying because she loved it.

She loved it too much.

She loved it with a fire.

She loved it with a need.

She needed it to be alive.

She needed it to be green.

She needed it to be perfect.

She needed it to be her.

But the fern was not her.

The fern was the fern.

The fern was the soil.

The fern was the water.

The fern was the rot.

She looked at Aris.

Aris was looking at her.

His eyes were hard.

His eyes were empty.

He was a mirror.

He showed her her own face.

She was the fern.

She was the leaf.

She was the yellow leaf.

She was the falling leaf.

She was the dust.

She felt a shock.

It was cold.

It was in her chest.

It was in her throat.

It was in her hands.

Her hands were shaking.

She looked at the fern.

The fern was gone.

The pot was empty.

The soil was dry.

The soil was cracked.

It was a bowl.

It was a hole.

It was a grave.

Eleanor stood up.

Her chair scraped the floor.

The sound was loud.

Aris looked up.

Aris looked confused.

Aris looked angry.

He stood up.

He opened his mouth.

He wanted to speak.

He wanted to command.

He wanted to conquer.

He wanted to win.

Eleanor did not listen.

She walked to the door.

She opened the door.

The hallway was white.

The light was bright.

The air was cold.

She walked.

She walked fast.

She did not run.

She did not look back.

She went to the elevator.

The doors closed.

The number went down.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Ground.

The doors opened.

The lobby was busy.

People walked.

People talked.

People lived.

Eleanor walked out.

The rain was falling.

The rain was heavy.

The rain was cold.

She did not have an umbrella.

She did not want an umbrella.

She let the water hit her face.

She let the water run down her neck.

She let the water soak her coat.

She felt the water.

She felt the cold.

She felt the life.

It was not clean.

It was not pure.

It was not green.

It was wet.

It was muddy.

It was real.

She went to the park.

The park was empty.

The benches were wet.

The trees were bare.

She sat on a bench.

The wood was cold.

The wood was wet.

She put her hands in her lap.

She closed her eyes.

She remembered Julian.

Julian was at home.

Julian was waiting.

Julian was holding the door.

Julian was making tea.

Julian was loving her.

Julian was the sun.

She was the leaf.

But the leaf had fallen.

The leaf was in the mud.

The leaf was in the rain.

The leaf was in the dark.

She did not want to be the sun.

She did not want to be the leaf.

She did not want to be the fern.

She wanted to be the dirt.

She wanted to be the soil.

She wanted to be the place where things grow.

She wanted to be the place where things die.

She wanted to be the place where things rot.

She wanted to be the truth.

The truth was ugly.

The truth was wet.

The truth was cold.

The truth was here.

She opened her eyes.

The rain was still falling.

The world was grey.

The world was wet.

The world was alive.

She stood up.

She walked home.

She did not rush.

She did not hide.

She walked in the rain.

The water ran into her shoes.

The water ran down her legs.

The water ran into her heart.

It filled the hole.

It filled the pot.

It filled the grave.

It was not water.

It was blood.

It was life.

It was death.

It was the same.

She reached her door.

She did not knock.

She had the key.

She opened the door.

Julian was in the kitchen.

Julian was at the counter.

Julian was washing a cup.

He turned.

He saw her.

He saw the wet.

He saw the cold.

He saw the face.

He stopped.

He held the cup.

The water dripped.

The water hit the floor.

He did not speak.

He did not ask.

He did not fix.

He just looked.

He saw her.

He saw the dirt.

He saw the mud.

He saw the leaf.

He walked to her.

He took her face in his hands.

His hands were warm.

His hands were dry.

He kissed her forehead.

He kissed her cheeks.

He kissed her lips.

The kiss was soft.

The kiss was wet.

The kiss was real.

He pulled her into his arms.

He held her tight.

He did not let go.

He held her in the rain.

He held her in the dark.

He held her in the dirt.

She was not a fern.

She was not a leaf.

She was the soil.

She was the ground.

She was the base.

She was the home.

The rain stopped.

The sky cleared.

The sun came out.

The sun was bright.

The sun was warm.

The sun was kind.

But the fern was gone.

The pot was empty.

The soil was dry.

The leaf was dust.

The dust was wind.

The wind was air.

The air was nothing.

Eleanor was there.

Julian was there.

They were there.

They were alive.

They were wet.

They were real.

They were enough.

The end.