Dreams of skeletal trees and spiced coffee line my walls. I take a sip, and the hot cinnamon burns my tongue. The tree trunk is a spinal cord, and its branches are scalpulas, clavicles, and ulnas. The summer is buried underneath the roots, but if you listen carefully, you can still hear the ghosts of summer loves lost, their echoing laughter. Their initials are still carved there, encased in jagged little hearts. I mournfully brush the wood with my fingertips. The skeleton tree bends down and whispers in my ear, "We trees know better than anyone that the seasons always change."