Shayan Afzal

Under the languid, slanting light of an October dusk, I drifted through Square One, camera in hand, seeking fragments of autumn as it stretched its limbs, lazy and slow, yet inevitable. There’s a chill, yes, but it’s a whispered promise, a coy suggestion of the frost to come, lingering just enough to make itself known but not yet ready to claim the earth. The trees stand as silent, unhurried storytellers, each leaf a testament to time, its color changing not in chorus, but in a delicate, fragmented harmony. Some are already drenched in crimson and amber, while others still hold fast to their green—a rebellion against the season’s gentle, encroaching touch.

I’m no scholar of trees; I’ve never learned the language of their names or the cadence of their seasons. But I see them, their colors a slow, rhythmic symphony that unfolds leaf by leaf, branch by branch. And so, with a reverence that only such fleeting beauty can inspire, I captured them—each photo a brushstroke of muted hues, a homage to autumn’s quiet magic. Fall, after all, is no place for bold and brash colors but for tones that softly hum, like a distant, forgotten melody echoing from the past.

These photos—these tender glimpses into the season’s heart—are swathed in shades reminiscent of a vintage filmstrip, like faded memories from a worn-out album of the ‘90s, imbued with a gentle, melancholic grace. They speak not of garish displays but of subtle, graceful notes that hang in the air, suspended and timeless, capturing fall’s hushed elegance as it lingers on the edge of memory and dream.