Elderberry. A scent long-lost in the passage of space, thought lost to time. Gus hadn’t felt its home in his senses for enough lifetimes to raise a country. And on this All-Hallows Evening, he could only reach for the battered binding of the family tome.

Hundreds of years of history, with the name Reinfeld inscribed, its spine was more wrinkled than your left elbow. Its bookshelf wasn’t much more for wear. Decorated in scratches, chips,and sloppily rubbed polish, it knew the feeling of tough love. It knew the feeling of family.

“Mmrh.”

Gus wasn’t a glib man; he was hardly a man at all! With four toes on each foot and the kind of hair that could make a dog envious, no, he held a beastly form. And yet. As he reached his monstrous, furry clutches out to the volume, he offered no grab. Softening at its touch, he swaddled its leather in his span, ferrying it toward his calming demeanor.

Snifffff… “Grandma’s summers.”

As he exhaled, Gus’ eyes seemed to melt. Thoughts of apple pies, cherry danishes, elderberry concentrate, all came flooding to his present. Reliving memories of his sweet youth spent at the family orchard; chasing the local bands, flirting among cobwebs, crash-courses in the cemetery… all dim lights now, though once they burned their own pages.

His thoughts turned to the falling leaves. Autumn had been his childhood sweetheart all these years, beckoning and never demanding. Though it would leave in with the chill, it never meant any harm and always returned. Gus finally let go his eyebrows and smiled.

That little smile. It was the kind that spoke volumes of different series, all at once. It was the kind that brought a lover’s hand to your cheek, rose to accept an award, watched your child take his first steps. The kind of smile that said, “this is it.” And with this smile, he replaced the old tome, then tracing his thumb up the bookshelf. Loose papers, dried flowers, a few dead spiders he couldn’t bring himself to evict… an unmarked vial with a cork-and-wax stopper.

Almost in a panic, he jolted still before his gargantuan hand could knock over the glass vial. Generations of Reinfeld blood, all leading to this one foul concoction, screaming out to him to hold cautious. So, with a coddling swing of the wrist, he secured his portent.

It wasn’t by the aches in his bones. It wasn’t even by the rot in his gut or the howl in his chest, no, it was by a promise. “Always be the first, never the last.” His family law hung above the mantle, a stoic reminder to embrace opportunity and forego hesitation. What, then, could he be, if not late? Late to greet his ancestors. Late to find his peace? No, he was early to greet the dawn, and he made his eventuality. As he slumped against the stack of firewood, settling in to pop the top, he graced his future.

“It’ll be gorgeous.”

An elderly man in loose robes awakens alone, shivering without the slightest company of a breeze. He thought he would freeze if not for the dying embers. The world inside his grand hall seemed much quieter than he had past known. No more voices in his head. All the raucous torment he stored away had scarpered off into the night.

For one last heave off the checkered tiles, he took toward the foyer. What was once a few paces away now made him sweat. Will the sun wait for him?

Pound-slam!

The morning breeze coming up from the rocky outcroppings… did they know his name? Could they remember him? It boiled from deep within. Overtaken by this joy, to be out of reach yet vulnerable. Let them come! We have so many stories to share!

“Gus!!”