The autumn maple leaves are falling, the trees are slowly preparing for sleep, and the plants are buried in snow, losing their sprouts and dying—the very end of autumn.

My spring sits weakly on the bed against the backdrop of falling maple leaves outside the window. A sudden ache pierces my chest, wondering if you, too, are heading toward your end. Of course, I'd get a scolding if I let it show to you.

Gently, I touch the hem of the hospital gown covering your white, thin wrist.

Your pale face looks as if it could collapse at any moment, and the light in your eyes is clearly fading as if you've lost all will.

Even so, you were my spring—the beautiful child of spring whenever I held you in my arms.