It was a warm September day, the kind that proves summer is loath to leave, and the sun shone warm and bright on the golden fields. A rough-looking man was reaping the ripe barley, his hat somewhat askew and his shirt dark with sweat as he swung his scythe back and forth through the stalks. A few paces behind him a little boy ran about gathering the fallen straws, binding them into sheaves as best as he could and stacking them up to dry. It was hard work for little hands, but when harvest time comes you need all the help you can get. But all children, be they ever so well behaved and industrious, are still children. And so when the little boy spotted an odd-looking man at the edge of the forest he put down the sheaf he was carrying and trotted off to investigate, as boys are wont to do. The man, it turned out, was a tall, slightly reedy sort of fellow with storm-grey eyes and wiry black hair. His face was weathered and wrinkled, like he’d spent too much time out in the cold and the rain, and his hands were just a little knobbly. The most fascinating thing, however, was the man’s coat. It was a shabby brown affair, much too warm for the weather, and it was made of some rough woven fabric. Into that fabric the man had stuck dozens if not hundreds of dried up old leaves, threading their stems through the fabric with care. They were all old and brown and slightly shrivelled, but given their apparent age and rough handling they had kept their shape remarkably well, and not a one of them seemed to be cracking or crumbling. Taking in the man’s strange appearance, the boy could come to only one conclusion. “Are you a fairy?” The boy asked curiously. “Something of the sort, I suppose.” The man replied, his voice somewhat low and creaky. “Are you here to steal me away?” “Now why would I do something like that?” “My mommy says that if you’ve been bad, the fairies come and steal you away.” “Have you been bad, then?” “I don’t think so.” The boy said thoughtfully. “I always do my chores and I don’t say any swears and I usually wash my hands before dinner, but sometimes I forget.” “Why, you’re practically a saint, then. You don’t have to worry about getting stolen away.” The boy nodded, feeling a little relieved. Getting stolen away sounded pretty bad. Less worried now, he once again returned to admiring the man’s coat. “Why is your coat full of leaves?” “They’re memories. Each and every one of them.” “Are they good memories or bad memories?” “The really important ones are always a bit of both.” “What does that mean?” The man chuckled. “You’ll understand when you get older, lad. Now run along. I think your father is looking for you.” Looking back to the field, the boy realized his father had stopped working and seemed to be searching for him. He ran off, not even remembering to say goodbye. When he did remember, and turned around to wave, the strange man with the coatful of memories was already gone.