The twenty-third of September was the autumn solstice. The day had started out warm and bright, with sunshine filtering delicately through the trees to heat the earth and moss of the forest floor. As sunset approached, however, a hint of chill set in the air—a foreshadowing of what would come with the sunset. 

Seated at the base of the lone tree on the silent hill, Irene shivered softly, though it was not from the cold. She knew what the solstice would bring. Resting her head on her knees, she gazed through the trees. She awaited the figure that would eventually come into her range of sight, a lone soul that would come on foot. It happened annually on the autumn solstice—there, under the mourning tree, another stranger would come to Irene as they only did when the solstice descended upon the quiet forest. Unhappily the woman sighed, drawing her knees closer to her chest.

The world was silent, waiting as the sky changed color with the sun's lazy descent. Fingers of tinted light stretched over Irene's fragile frame, and she raised her head to gaze over the horizon.

Watching. 

Waiting. 

She did not have to wait long. In the distance, a figure was beginning to come into view, approaching the hill at a brisk pace. 

Irene cast another glance into the sky. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, sky tainted with rich shades of pink and orange. Sunset had arrived, distorting the colors of the world around and casting shadows through the trees rather than the delicate beams of sunlight that had fallen gently through the trees just moments before. The shadows were long, and Irene's heart was heavy. 

As the figure neared, it became clear that it was a young woman—Irene would place her age in the late twenties, or early thirties at most. She looked younger than some of the strangers that Irene had met in the years prior, but older than some of the others. All the same, Irene dreaded their meeting. She rested her head on her knees once more and closed her eyes, curling more into herself. She knew that doing so wouldn't make the stranger magically disappear. It had never worked before. Ignoring them did not make them vanish—Irene must interact, as she did every year, with the stranger that found her among the trees. 

She could hear it now, the quiet crunching of leaves beneath the stranger's feet as she ascended the hill, toward Irene and the mourning tree. The stranger was humming a soft tune under her breath as she clambered over leaves and rocks and fallen limbs from the trees around, her song far too cheerful to suit the circumstances. Irene's exhale was mournful. The solstice would never be easier for her.

"Hello," a voice called out. It was sweet, melodic—despite herself, Irene found herself liking that voice, and raised her head to meet the eyes of the voice's owner.

The stranger was beautiful, gorgeous in a way that was painful. Her eyes were sparkling and warm, her dark hair tied in a messy bun, her clothes clean despite her walk through the woods and the reality of the solstice's descent. Irene felt inadequate, her thin white dress stained by dirt and covered in leaves and twigs as though she was a wild thing that had rolled about on the forest floor before sitting beneath the tree. 

"Hello," Irene eventually murmured. 

The stranger smiled at Irene, and sat down across from her. Irene's eyes follow