Now, it is Autumn. The world has slowly fallen silent, and so has she. He tries desperately not to think about the way things were before; how her eyebrow rose when he brought up a new theory, challenging him to think more clearly, the delicate sighs that escaped her when they made love, even the way she smiled when he told one of his lame jokes.

Before, he had the feeling that he wholly understood Dana Scully- every expression, every sound, every nuance. How she would use up the day caring for her patients, and then relax with a bottle of Pinot Noir in front of an old movie, her feet in his lap. They used to spend long evenings naked in bed. He would tell her stories taken from his books, and she would talk of their son in a hushed voice. She kept a box of pictures in the back of the closet that they never discussed, but he looked at them whenever he needed to get out one of his old suits.

The woman who walks next to him now is bone thin, shoulders stooped with the weight of their circumstances. She hasn't showered since they left the base camp six days ago, although she carries a tiny bottle of perfume that he found in someone's bedroom, forgotten in a panic to get out. She has no qualms about sleeping in a strange home, taking canned food from its cupboards, covering herself with its blankets. Scully hasn't mentioned William in far too long, although he fully believes that the child is most likely still alive.

They move down the road slowly, leaves from the nearby trees falling gently around them. He clears his throat, surprised at the nervous fluttering in his chest.

"You know, it's a common superstition that if you catch a leaf on the first day of Fall, you won't catch a cold all winter." His voice is husky from lack of use, and it's so far from the first day of Fall that he hopes she points out his mistake.

Her eyes flit to him for a brief second. He holds his breath, but she disappoints him. He stuffs his free hand into his pocket and holds her eggshell hand as tightly as his conscience will allow.