Autumn

This isn't my own story.  I found it in the form of a comment and a reply in the comment section of a youtube music video (I highly suggest you listen to the music while you read).  It uses the music in the video and the image along with it (which I've used as the cover image of this post) as inspiration to write a short short-story. 

It was definitely a great read for me. The first part is pretty much as is, but I've made a few more significant changes to the second, one of which was to write the whole thing in present tense, I don't think the narrator would tell the story in the past tense (you'll understand why when you read it). I also added a sentence here and there, and took one or two away here and there, and changed the order a few things appear in as well. I hope it makes the story a little more impactful.

Enjoy!

Original comment:

Every morning, every afternoon, every night, I see her.  This girl, standing at a bus stop, the same one every time, watching the world pass her by.  It's like she never leaves.  It's been like this for years.  Whatever the weather, I always see her there.  It's strangely uplifting.  It's also, quite simply, strange.

I stop to talk to her sometimes.  Every time I ask her name it's something different.  It's always a noun, never a conventional name. "Story," it was the first time I asked. Another day, just to humor her as she seemed to not recognise me, I asked again. "Memory," that time.  The next day, "Snow".  "Glass." The most normal name I've gotten was "Crystal".  I'm sure it was the same person each time I asked, but she always addresses me like we've never met.  I suppose it's easy to dismiss her as just some weirdo, but after talking to her so much, it's hard for me to see her that way.

Other people have taken notice of her.  Some days I pass her by and see a man, looking tired, emptying his trouble onto her, into the mind behind that youthful, wistful face.  I've heard her give him oddly deep insight for someone her age.  The man has changed from talking to her, I can tell.  When he doesn't stop to talk, he gives her a smile.  She returns it, but in the way of someone who feels like they should remember him, but don't.

I asked her one night if she really forgets me every time I leave.  She seemed confused by the question and asked if we'd met before.

"Of course we have.  I've stopped to talk to you countless times over the last three years.  You always talk to me like I'm a stranger."

"Oh," she said.

Just "oh".  She didn't ask me about what happened all the times, or why I thought she forgot about me so often.  Just "oh", and one of her somewhat rare smiles.

I feel like there's more to her I don't understand, but I doubt I'll ever get answers... And maybe that's fine.  She's an interesting person.  I'm glad she's always there, for me and for everyone else.

Reply:

Apparently many people wonder who I am... Just like me.

You see, I suffer from a memory problem.  I can't remember who I am, what I was doing, what I am doing, where I am going, etc.  So, when people ask me who I am, my name, to be specific, I reply with whatever I feel like at the moment.  Although I can't remember who I was talking to, I distinctly remember the names. "Memory", "Glass", "Honour", Wishes", "Water".

It's early morning.  I'm at a bus stop.  A man comes up to me and asks for my advice.  It seems like he's known me for a long time and I don't want to turn him away.  Obviously I don't remember if I've ever told anyone about my condition, so I assume he doesn't know.

I sit him down next to me on the small bench, out of the way of the sun, the one with the beige awning.

His question is one I don't expect, not in the pleasant chill of this autumn air and the vibrant colours of the fluttering leaves.  He takes a deep breath, and asks me how to help his second daughter.  She refuses to see the doctor, you see, even though she shows obvious signs of depression and potentially even thoughts of suicide.

I, in turn, ask him how much he's pushed her to see the doctor.

"Every day, miss," he says, "She means everything to me.  I just want to keep her safe."

I think for a moment, and finally come up with an answer.

"I don't want to say this, but I think you should leave her be for a while.  She might see your presence as a threat if you keep pushing her."

"But what is she-"

"I know.  She looks suicidal.  She's obviously stressed.  I don't know her, but I can say different factors make some things more or less important.  If she feels she is letting you down by saying nothing, slowly stop and maybe she'll get better slowly on her own."

---

It's later in the day.  I sit on the bus stop, this time drinking a cup of tea.  A boy comes up to me.  He can't be any older than me, or at least how old I guess I am based on how I look in the mirror.  He must be somewhere in highschool, then.  The way he carries himself tells me he's interested in me, but not romantically.

He comes up to me.  I stand.

"Hi," he sais, like he's seen me before.

I guess he probably has.  Of the few things I vaguely recall, him sitting on the porch of a house nearby on occasion is one of them. He might be my neighbour, or someone my neighbour knows.

"Hi."

"Do you... do you really forget who I am every time I leave?"

Naturally, because my condition is a rather unusual thing, I pretend to play dumb.

"Forget you?  Why would I?  Have I met you before?"

He confirms I have.

"I've stopped by and talked to you countless times over the last three years."

He puts his hands in his pockets.

"You always talk to me like I'm a stranger."

"Oh," I murmur, plan defeated.

I smile, just a little.

Of course...

Maybe he remembers every single time we've met.

I wonder if he remembers "Memory", "Glass", "Honour", "Whishes", and "Water"?

"What's your name?  You... um... change it every time," he breaks the silence.

I cock my head, struck with a sudden idea.

"You remember me, don't you?  All those times we 'met'?"

"Not each and every one, but I have a general idea," he nods, "Why?"

"I want you to give me a name," I shrug, "A name that matches what you remember about me."

His eyes widen.  I hear him let out a low, soft whistle.

"A NAME?  Oh, I don't think I have the right to give you one.  A name isn't something someone else decides for you, not when you can give yourself one."

"If I wanted to name myself, I would have done so already," I sigh.

Silence descends on the bus stop, underscored by a gentle breeze that rustles the coarse autumn leaves.  A few drift down past my neck.

He thinks, and thinks, and thinks.  He looks mildly uncomfortable.  He paces back and forth, and eventually sits down next to me on the bench, his brows creased.  I don't know why giving me a name can be so hard, I mean, it's just a single word.  It's simple, every single word, or almost every single word, is just a concept we can assign to anything.  A rock is a rock because we call it a rock.  I'm no different.

He lifts his head and stares at me, into my eyes.

"I know what your name should be."

I stare back at him, my breath stuck in my chest.  Will I remember the name tomorrow?

"Your name is..."

A pause.

"Autumn."

He sighs.

"Because today is the third anniversary of our first meeting."

He stands.

"That's how I remember you now and that's how I'll always remember you."

"My name is Autumn," I echo, trying to taste it in my mouth.

"Yes.  Your name is Autumn.  Now don't forget it."

---

It's morning.  I can't remember anything of what happened yesterday, of course.  But... one word is stuck in my head.  I don't know why I dont'forget it.  Maybe because it's the word for the leaves this time of year, but I should know this.

I run my fingers through my hair.

"...Autumn," I breathe against the glass window of the livingroom.

A spark, a flash of light in my eyes... like the opening of the first buds of spring.

"Autumn.  My name... is Autumn."