This year Autumn missed her alarm. And the night carried on around her, little elves of summer dancing on her eyelids, taunting her, daring her to wake up and tell the trees the party was over, like she always did. And then they would groan as the lights came up and told the leaves they had to go home, as they always knew they would, eventually.

This year the trees carried on partying for weeks. Maybe a month. Then someone thought to check on Autumn. “Wait is she ok?” one said, “she’s fine,” said some spruce, through a gurn. But then another morning came, and they realised how sad and embarrassing it would be if they’d been having all this fun while she was lying dead upstairs.

So the trees tiptoed and creaked up the stairs to check. She was out cold. Out hot? Unseasonable, anyway. They called an ambulance. Summer was over, and Autumn, too.