Autumn Morning

The city wakes with a cool that doesn’t bite—it just informs. She steps out in a light sweater, hands in pockets, and the street answers with gentle steam rising from coffee cups. On the sidewalk, ash leaves rustle like crepe paper; a bougainvillea combs its color down as if it, too, were sleepy.

She turns onto Chapultepec while the stalls are still yawning. In a bakery, sweet bread stacks its perfume and the bell leaves a note hanging between bicycles. She buys a small concha—sugar like frost—and pockets it for later, just for the ritual.

Sun enters sideways, gilding arcades and forgotten pots. Outside Expiatorio the pigeons practice their daily diplomacy. In the garden, the air smells of late marigold and freshly watered soil; autumn in Guadalajara doesn’t arrive with blazing reds but with a light that lowers its voice.

She sits on a bench. Breaks the concha with her fingers and feeds the birds a few crumbs. She checks her phone and decides not to open anything yet. A shadow from a jacaranda—off-season but faithful—draws violet steps across her sneakers.

For a full minute, the world asks nothing back. The city breathes deep and she breathes with it: autumn understood as permission. Then she stands, tucks the sweater a little, and walks—light—like every corner were a freshly turned page.