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The red leaves of autumn crumbled beneath my feet, resembling shards of glass, only gentler. Rumbling began, instilling anxiety in the ground below. One by one, logs were sliced at the instruction of the moving blade, liberating a vast array of vibrant bark beetles and decorating the earth with minuscule wood chips. With each movement of lever, I degraded the age-old lumber into kindling. The ground’s vitality grew dimmer, either from the lack of sunlight or the abundance of tree coverage. My father remained aloof to such change, blindly placing chunks of wood onto the splitter for me to break. However, my attention did not dissipate into such monotonous labor—I couldn't allow it. I watched the winter season dominate the landscape over the course of mere hours. The once beautiful ground transformed into a desolate wasteland rid of all life.

Then my father screamed. My eyes returned only to watch drops of blood slip from his hand and fall to the ground, having already enveloped the blade. I did this. I brought back the color of autumn.

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