A woman with long, curly brown hair and warm, golden skin sits cross-legged on a blanket of vibrant autumn leaves, her back against the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree, its branches twisted and tangled above her like a canopy of withered fingers, the leaves a kaleidoscope of oranges, reds, and yellows, some still clinging to their stems, others scattered around her, as if the tree itself had shed tears of gold, the air is filled with the sweet, earthy scent of decay and rebirth, a few stray leaves cling to her hair and shoulders, and a small, leather-bound book lies open on her lap, its pages fluttering gently in the breeze, her eyes are cast upward, toward the sky, where a small, dying star hangs low on the horizon, its light a deep, burning crimson, and a tiny satellite, a small, metallic orb, orbits the star, its path a thin, glowing line, etched across the darkening sky, the woman's face is tilted upward, her eyes filled with a deep sense of wonder, and her lips are parted, as if she is singing a soft, wordless melody, that harmonizes with the gentle hum of the satellite, and the rustling of the leaves, in a symphony of sound, that echoes across the autumnal landscape.