Still dark water flows by, dotted by autumn leaves. The orange has faded, now, wilted, turned brown as the season has passed. Trees stretch their dark, naked arms towards the sky, praying for sunlight, for warmth, for life. But their prayers will go unheeded for months to come as snow and frost cover all in a thick, cold, soft blanket. The world stands at Winter's door.
Silent steps descend the stairs, the sound hidden by the mournful singing of the small river. Naked feet, red with cold, step on grey stone painted with frost. Dead, brown grass crunches and breaks as the person, dressed in robes of grey, kneels before the wailing statue by the river.
Mourning grey. That is what the color is called, the one the person's robes are. They cover everything but hands, face and feet, rag-like and torn. They cannot hide the shaking shoulders as the mourner prays to the statue, the grey stone frozen in grief, both hands covering the face.
Naked feet, red with cold, step silently onto the stone. Frozen fingers brush pieces of wilted, dead grass off the robe, rub swollen eyes as the grey-clad mourner quietly starts up the steps again, naked, cold feet soundless on grey rocks painted with frost.
Peace descends over the late autumn evening. The trees, dark, painted silver by merciless cold, stretch their naked fingers towards an unforgiving grey sky. A breeze flows through the forest, disturbing the yellow-brown leaves, tossing them about like so many rags, settling them down again as it grows bored and moves on.
Snow falls. Each snowflake unique, not two alike in the world, they create a thin blanket on the ground and settle on the wailing state's bowed head and hunched shoulders. Winter has come, cold and merciless, bringing no relief for the mourning.
Non-fiction? This is really intriguing