It comes softly at first, wrapping the valley in amber light, gilding the chinar and willow leaves, but underneath, life begins to strain. Leaves, once buoyant and alive, carry faint marks of yellow, hints of decay as if bitten by a silent serpent. The fragrance of Harud hangs heavy, a sweet musky scent that masks the truth: the season is a slow eraser of life. Each falling leaf is a golden tear, mourning trees that will stand stripped and skeletal before the cold comes. Harud teaches a lesson older than the rivers: life blooms beautifully, and yet it is always slipping toward its end.