At his house, she ate the carrot cake that tasted like their summer before it flew away on the breath of the red leaves, which cracked and curled under her feet, and the time felt never ending, like she was water swirling down a drain, and she laughed at the turning seasons, growing and un-growing themselves into the monotonous cycle of being forgotten (yesterday he asked her to sing but she giggled instead and he frowned and she laughed, and laughed, and pushed the air out so hard that her eyes grew wet from remembering).