The tree that they planted here last year is tall now. As the seasons turn, its leaves are slowly yellowing, dropping one by one to the slick pavement until the path is thick with peat and the tree stands denuded, stark against a metallic sky.

The park is not itself in autumn. Everything drips. Colour fades into the earth until only the grass seems bright, while the bark on the trees is sodden with rain and the benches beaded with it, too wet to sit on. People hurry past beneath their black umbrellas and barely spare a glance at the world beyond the cast-iron gates. They do not wish to see the ghosts of summer dying amidst the blurring rain, or watch the once-green leaves rot on the sidewalk. Soon – only a few short months away – new life will bud on the trees’ stricken limbs and the plants will bloom again. Until then, however, those who are forced to pass through on their way from place to place keep their collars up and their eyes to themselves, letting dreams of hot days and butterflies conceal the bleakness of the oncoming winter.

Even the wind is silent. It breathes gently against the branches of the tree, clicking small twigs together like castanets, but otherwise it does not speak. Without its rustling voice, the only sound in the park is the slow splash of the waterfall against the concrete base of the fountain.

Unlike people, the birds do not mind the rain, perhaps because the damp brings out the worms and the snails, ripe and plump for picking. They flutter their wet feathers in the trees and preen, ogling the paths with bright, hungry eyes. Below, pale pink worms drown in puddles or are snapped up by greedy beaks; autumn is not kind to invertebrates.

The earth talks to itself. Even after the rain fades to a grey drizzle, a faint gurgle is audible as the bloated ground soaks up the moisture, and the smell of damp soil mingles with rotting foliage to make a subtle but pleasant perfume.

The tree bends slightly, pushed by the breeze, and a wave of movement stirs across the park that dies almost as soon as it begins. On the road outside, the faint swish of car tires on wet asphalt subsides, and somewhere, a bird begins to sing. Its tune rings cold and clear in the fresh, clean air after the rain.