In the trees, a rustling could be heard. Leaves donned new coats of color and drifted from the canopy above in the birches. A chill in the air made it clear to all those enjoying the park that evening that Fall drew near.

A man observed the leaves as they floated to the ground from a bench atop the brick path. He had long since been desensitized from the cold of Fall and Winter, living as a homeless man for so long. What he wouldn't give for some new shoes and a shave... He glanced down at his worn watch, tapping the glass.

6:00 PM. It would be dark soon. Lifting his battered and torn backback over his shoulder, the man stood and sauntered toward the park edge and the crosswalk. The women averted their eyes, seemingly ashamed to see him there, and the men pretended to check their e-mails on their phones or the time on their watches. Children occasionally asked their mothers why he was so dirty, but they were hushed and guided away. This man was an outcast in his own society. Even so, there was always a friendly face in the soup kitchen.

Warm, savory air wafted out of the cafeteria, stinging his chilled skin. Many other homeless men and women sat together at the tables, busily talking and eating while huddled over ther warm meals. He made his way to the counter and the woman behind it greeted him, handing him a tray.

As he ate, he wondered how he ended up this way. There was a time where he had a home and a family and somehow all of that had slipped away after all these years. A warm meal offered some solace then.

It had been many weeks since he had been able to lay down in a warm bed, even one that was as thin and hard as this one. It was better than sleeping in the park and as he closed his eyes, he remembered the trees.

He would give anything to live in the country, where the trees were endless. He wished he could live in a simpler time when people would meet his gaze and he could live off of the land and make a life for himself again. The breeze would always be warm and he would never go hungry again...

His eyes popped open to behold the blue sky. The warm, spring air carassed his scruffy face. Wasn't it Fall? Wasn't it Fall before? The trees were turning...

"No," he spoke aloud, "It can't be Fall. Spring just got here!" He stood and stretched, breathing in the clean forest air. The world was his.

Many months passed and yet Spring remained. Somehow he never questioned how the passing of the seasons had somehow halted. He built a home by a lake near a village claimed by strange monk-like people. They were all dressed in robes, arms crossed in front of them and hidden in their sleeves. He couldn't understand their barbaric language, but they were eager traders and he sometimes gave them precious gems he mined in the mountains in exchange for food and clothes. They were peaceful and so was he.

Even though the villagers were peaceful, the monsters were not. They came every night to attack the villagers and Steve would fight them, only to find himself in bed the next morning. He plotted ways to rid the world of the monsters so he and the village could live in peace and for many years it seemed as though his struggles were all for naught.

One night, he armed himself with a sword he forged in the smithy in the village. He waited in his home and shouted at them to come and get him. He wouldn't allow them to terrorize him anymore. The zombies growled at his door and when they broke in, he lunged and sank his sword into their bodies.

"Steve Smith." The doctor closed the case file, laying it down on the table. "He's always thought our staff were trying to hurt him and would struggle when we tried to restrain him, but he's never been violent before," the doctor sighed. "I just don't see how I can keep him with the low-risk patients if we can't prevent this from happening again. He made a shank out of toilet paper, for God's sake!" Exasperated, he removed his glasses and looked up at the social worker.

"I feel sorry for him," she muttered, "but maybe it's better he's created his own world."

"Perhaps so," he agreed. Tapping the folder on his desk to straighten the papers inside, he slid his glasses back up his nose and stood. "I suppose that concludes it then. I'll order his transfer to the high-risk ward. I can't see him improving and abandoning his psychosis, but perhaps..."

That night, the monsters came for Steve again. They may have taken his sword, but he would not go without a fight. He kicked and screamed and watched the villagers peer through their windows at him as he was dragged toward the door of his home. In the heat of his struggle, he suddenly felt warm and sleep began to take him. Just before he closed his eyes, he swore he saw snow falling outside.

"It can't be Winter," he croaked, "Spring just got here..."