Main Street of Potter Oaks at 8:30 in the morning was filled with all sorts of people. They were mostly errand runners, though some had to be child wranglers as well- a child here and there on a parent's hip or on one of those child leashes. Most of my kind were asleep, preparing for their evening adventures where the boys and girls would meet, flirt, drink and indulge.

I liked the weekend mornings of Potter Oaks, a score of hurried footsteps, hushed children, and the low rumble of cars, filling my ears. Autumn made sure to paint Main Street with all variety of leaves, mostly oak though some were maple and birch. Nature's orange filled my vision, welcoming myself and Crispen into its embrace.

It was a lovely time and better yet, today I walked with Crispen. Eyes weren't upon us anymore- he was full blood Oaker now- and we got to freely enjoy ourselves. The sun felt good on my skin, though I was sure it would blister and red if I stayed among it for too long. I hadn't bothered to slip into my sneakers and so I strode down Main Street panda heads for feet that bobbed up and down as I went. I looked at everything with curious eyes. Who carried the fall into our town? What manner of creature tended to the trees and painted their leaves when the time was right? As I crunched on the leaves underfoot, was I impeding some creature's hard work?

"Don't worry about where you walk," Crispen said- the first words spoken outside of the Auttsley residence. I never felt the need to speak to Crispen unless I had something to say. And this was refreshing. We never indulged in small talk and formalities. We were approaching Mrs. Brokinn's fruit stand and as we did so, Crispen's nose crinkled.

"Her peaches aren't ripe yet."

He looked disheartened. We passed by her, sleeping as she did every day, in her rocking chair, crocheting needles on her lap, and I chuckled. Potter Oaks had a charm about it from its residents and a feeling of the same old, of which I found soothing. Even Crispen's arrival hadn't changed the town's inner workings; it adjusted to his presence and he became another addition to the town.

"A train appeared on my lawn," I said, my hand reaching up and pulling a yellowed leaf off one of the old oak trees overhead. Leaves always looked like stars to me and when they fell, their was something tragic in them. The coin trembled its agreement in my back pocket. I ran my hand over the rough surface of the leaf; I would preserve it, as I did with leaves and flowers, and it would make a fine addition to my collection. Crispen looked at me and the leaf in my hands and smiled.

"Why that leaf?"

An interesting question to ask.

"No reason. No why. I just chose it. Or maybe it chose me." I put the leaf carefully into my hoodie's side pocket. I had been smart this day, and knowing a sunny Autumn day still invited the cold, I made sure I came prepared. I'd grabbed my mother's hoodie of the coat hanger and had hoped she would not be in need of it later. I would get a lecture on it if she noticed its disappearance.

Crispen looked into one of the bay windows of Cortonelli's Hardware shop. He eyed nothing in particular, just looked at his reflection. Nothing struck me as odd or different about him but the way he stared into the glass's surface told me he saw something I could not.

Mr. Heavensley still wore black today; crew neck black sweater three sizes too big, acid washed jeans whose better days were well behind them, and black loafers, slip on instead of laced. He had a relaxed air about him, his pace his own. His hair was parted to the side, strands held in their places with no manner of gel or product. Perhaps he had willed his hair to stay that way and the strands themselves could do nothing but oblige.

Some sort of sigil fell from his left ear, a cross within a circle, though there was nothing Christian about the cross. Upon closer inspection, which involved me ignoring the rules of personal space, I saw four tiny crows skillfully etched on each of the cross's limbs. He hadn't worn an earring before. Honestly, I didn't recall him having pierced ears. Perhaps this had been his preference for today. Nature, fashion, time, all bending to his will. How fascinating.

"So you saw a train?"

He finally broached the subject matter I had truly wanted to talk about. He turned toward me suddenly- me still an invader of his personal space- his face inches within mine.

Too close, Heavensley. Too close.

He jerked away quickly. At least he remained a gentleman as he read my thoughts. It took a few moments to recover. His face was pleasant but seeing it so intimately made my stomach flutter. Crispen was quite troublesome.

"Yes, a train," I said, three steps behind Crispen as we continued to walk. Something stopped me from matching my gait to his.

"Anything else?"

I snickered.

"Does there really need to be anything else? Not everyone is blessed with other wordly transportation."

He sighed. Around his waist, clipped to his jeans and hidden by his sweater, was a yellow walkman- a relic of days when cassettes held power and the internet was just a mere whisper. He reached for it now, one of the many tapes strewn upon the steps of his house, stuffed inside it.

"Here," he said, as he reached over me and placed a set of plastic headphones over my ears. He pressed the play button and I was immediately transported back to days before my own. It was Phil Collins.

"Genesis," Crispen corrected, as he lifted one of the headphones off my ear. "Invisible Touch. Great song."

"It's catchy, I'll give it that much," I said, the song's beat burrowing into my body, my gait matching the tempo as I walked along with Crispen. As the song came to its end, Crispen clasped my hand within his own. My cheeks blushed that infuriating red again and my heart threatened to free itself from my body. I tried to wriggle free, but Crispen kept a gentle hold on my hand and as I turned to gaze at him, I saw what he had wanted me to see.

All around me, I saw the trees of Main Street being tended to by waist high creatures of brown bark. Their features were a mixture of tree and human. They had human faces; two eyes, a nose and mouth. Their skin was like tree bark, rough and peeling. Some were covered in moss. Their limbs were long and thin and they moved to and fro around the trees, swaying with their own breeze, plucking leaves from the branches. Each one had a flower on their backs, browned and dying.

"Grayflys," Crispen said. "You wanted to know who tended to the trees."

I turned to him in surprise. I hadn't asked him to show me anything. I hadn't even voiced my curiosity. But here we were, in the middle of Main Street, seeing what others couldn't. People moved around us normally, tending to their business as usual, the Grayflys maneuvering gracefully around them, careful not to disturb the mundane.

"Mindful things, aren't they?" I asked, watching a Grayfly pluck the leaves of a young birch tree from its branches; the checklist in its hand marked off as it did so. The leaves fell to the ground as though a wind had knocked them from their branch, not the hands of a tiny, barked creature.

"Most things of Reflection are. Grayflys paint and pluck the trees' leaves during the fall season."

"How come no one else is affected?"

I watched as Ms. Bartley and her son walked past a Grayfly sitting on the branch of a maple. This one was on break, sipping a sweet smelling liquid from a chicken shaped watering can.

"I'm allowing just you to see."

I smiled at being one of Crispen's chosen. But then I thought it strange that he would should me this now. I had told him something of the highest importance, of which he had refused to explain. Crispen's vague nature aside, I needed to know about the train.

"What of the train that appeared?" I asked again, a Grayfly fluttering around me. I appreciated their caution. Crispen sighed again and released my hand. As the heat of his touch disappeared from my skin, so to did the Grayflys, though something told me they remained, tending to the trees, making sure the appropriate leaves fell at the appropriate times.

Everything here was so well executed. It was a shame very few knew the truth. Crispen threw himself onto a bench outside the Gully's cornerstore. He sat underneath a birch tree, his gaze focused on the Grayflys work. He threw his legs over the bench's side and placed his hands behind his head. He looked as if he waited for my curiosity to pass. Something about the train on my lawn had him all up in arms.

"There's only one train. It possesses no otherworldly manner or device. There'd have to be other worlds for it to do so."

Oh, unnecessary, Heavensley. It was a manner of speech.

He closed his eyes as leaves fell around him. I could almost picture the Grayflys sprinkling them around him; a boy embraced and accepted by all.

"Manner of speech. So to say. Those phrases pervert the meaning. Just say what you want to say."

"And when I do, I'm hit with all manner of vague implications. You should take your own advice and say what you want to say."

I pushed him over and took a seat beside him. He sighed, his posture less comfortable than it had been.

"You're right."

He turned to me, his face, once again too close, but even though I thought this, Crispen didn't relent.

"That train allows one to travel the layers. It had no reason to show itself to you. Something or someone, let you see. And it surely wasn't me."

"So someone else takes interest in me?" I laughed, thinking how absurd. I was by no means interesting enough to pique the curiosity of someone who could travel the layers.

"You have no idea how interesting you are," Crispen replied, silencing my laughter.

The coin burned in my pocket, taking Heavensley's side. I just gazed at him- people and Grayflys buzzing around us- not hearing a single sound or seeing a single leaf; a fear I couldn't quell grabbed at me.

Something's coming, my liver screamed.

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Grayflys: Oh these darling creatures! They are three feet high, bark covered creatures with faces, hands and feet of humans. Each one carries a unique flower on their back and as they go through the seasons, so too, does their flower. In spring, it blooms, bigger and bigger, swelling with a beauty few ever get to see and appreciate. In summer, it blossoms, big and vivid, swirls of color housed on each petal. In Autumn, the blossom dies and in the winter, it sleeps and prepares itself to bloom once again. It's quite a joy to see a familiar Grayfly bloom different flowers, the guessing game is most exquisite. These creatures tend to the trees of Reason, and are often times seen with the Oxmen whose jobs it is to push over trees that need pushed.

The Grayflys paint the leaves of Reason's trees, when it is time for the trees to wake up. They keep them green throughout the summer months and then paint them again when fall is upon the layer. This second coat of paint, is more often than not, the favorite paint of the Grayflys. It gives them artistic license to paint the trees differing shades of ocher, brown, and crimson. And if you ever pay enough attention, you'll see each and every leaf has it's own color, mixed by the delicate hands of the finest of nature's artists with brushstrokes individual to each Grayfly. The best painting, in my opinion, is the one that the children of Nature create.

They are mindful, sensitive creatures and when a Grayfly feels as though it's messed up, that leaf shrivels up, and falls to the ground where the Grayfly hopes that human feet will crush the mistake into dust. Often time, a mistake shakes up the Grayfly's confidence and because of this, it is taken off it's duty and made to go to group counseling, finding consolation in others who are experiencing the same. So to you, wanderers of Reason, perhaps when you see the leaves, think of the painstakingly hard work and dedication that has gone into each one, a Grayfly carefully painting the color most pleasing to your eyes.