Reflections from Nature

Rhys slumped beneath the ancient oak, his shoulders heavy with defeat. The rejection letter crumpled in his pocket felt like the weight of the world. Tears traced silent paths down his cheeks as he stared blankly at the ground—hopelessness had hollowed him out.

Then, a rustle of leaves.

A small boy appeared, clutching a wooden paint box and a sun-bleached canvas. Without a word, he settled beside Rhys and began to paint. Strokes of gold and green bloomed across the fabric—summer’s vibrance, spring’s tender buds, winter’s stark elegance, autumn’s fiery surrender.

Rhys watched, transfixed. “Why this?” he finally asked, voice rough.

The boy didn’t look up. “Because it’s magic,” he said simply. “The world changes its skin, but never stops being beautiful.”

A breeze stirred the leaves above them.

And just like that—Rhys understood.

Seasons didn’t apologize for their endings. Trees didn’t begrudge winter for stripping them bare. They stood, roots deep, knowing light would return.

He wiped his face, the salt on his lips now tasting less like sorrow and more like the sea before a new tide.

Life, too, had its seasons.

And his was only just beginning.