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Clara enforced this rule with quiet precision. When the local baker advertised “The Best Cake of Autumn,” Clara gently corrected it to “autumn.” When the high school yearbook wrote “Forever in our Summer Memories,” she changed “Summer” to “summer.” She was correct. She was precise. And she was deeply, privately uneasy.
Every September, as the maple outside her window turned from deep green to a hesitant gold, Clara would open her style guide. And every year, the answer was the same. The Chicago Manual of Style said: no. Seasons are common nouns. Spring, summer, autumn, winter—lowercase unless personified or part of a proper noun. should autumn be capitalized
And that, she decided, was the only rule that mattered. Clara enforced this rule with quiet precision
That night, Clara walked through town. The air was sharp and sweet with woodsmoke. Pumpkins grinned from porches. A wind kicked up a spiral of copper leaves, and for a fleeting second, Clara could almost see a figure there—a tall woman in a russet cloak, her hair made of dried ferns, her laugh the sound of acorns dropping on a tin roof. And she was deeply, privately uneasy
“Hello, Autumn,” Clara whispered. And the word felt right with the capital A, as if she had finally addressed an old friend by her true name.
Clara enforced this rule with quiet precision. When the local baker advertised “The Best Cake of Autumn,” Clara gently corrected it to “autumn.” When the high school yearbook wrote “Forever in our Summer Memories,” she changed “Summer” to “summer.” She was correct. She was precise. And she was deeply, privately uneasy.
Every September, as the maple outside her window turned from deep green to a hesitant gold, Clara would open her style guide. And every year, the answer was the same. The Chicago Manual of Style said: no. Seasons are common nouns. Spring, summer, autumn, winter—lowercase unless personified or part of a proper noun.
And that, she decided, was the only rule that mattered.
That night, Clara walked through town. The air was sharp and sweet with woodsmoke. Pumpkins grinned from porches. A wind kicked up a spiral of copper leaves, and for a fleeting second, Clara could almost see a figure there—a tall woman in a russet cloak, her hair made of dried ferns, her laugh the sound of acorns dropping on a tin roof.
“Hello, Autumn,” Clara whispered. And the word felt right with the capital A, as if she had finally addressed an old friend by her true name.