There was once a girl, a worn and weary girl who dreamt of being pure once more. There was field that seemed to stretch for miles not far from the house this girl had grown up in. Some time ago, a boy's footsteps used to trail that field, his fingertips grazing the tips of swaying grain. She had barely known the boy at the time, though their paths had crossed with frequence. It was only when she had found out his name that the boy was swept from the town with the stray leaves of autumn. And so with numerous seasons having crept up her limbs and having weighed her down, she returns to the field, to stay. From sunrise 'til sunset she strips the soil of the little fruit it bears, pleading with the earth for forgiveness. Her name was Summer, and she could not bear to understand why the boy had gone, though she could still smell his scent, the scent of the season, a ghost of the soil on which she stepped. But as the days passed and the winds of the west were reborn, she began to understand why the boy had to leave, and she herself knew she could not stay. But she would never forget his name.