If you don’t believe me, go look outside and see for yourself, she would say if she wasn’t asleep. I want to wake her up, tell her that she’s wrong, but instead I walk to the window. The tree’s leaves are green, but when I blink they turn brown. They shrivel into flakes, as if burned, and fall onto the flowerbed below. But before they land the roses lilt and break, making room for the falling leaves. I can hear her breathing behind me while the ground gets covered by snow. With each breath, the snow melts, then more snow comes, the ground rising and falling like a white water river flood, rushing and slowing at the pace of her sleeping. By the time I look back up at the tree, it’s dense, chemical fire green, like deep electric moss. I focus on my reflection in the window, I notice a new wrinkle. I want to look for an old scar, but I’ve forgotten them all. I get back into bed and close my eyes, wondering if in the morning it will be winter.