The Broken Leaf

Assistant Editor Leila Chatti: As the weather begins to cool into autumn (and, if we can imagine it, eventually winter), this quiet, attentive piece felt like an appropriate choice for the more ruminative season. “The Broken Leaf” is like a snow globe in which a miniature world stands in for something larger. In this story, small moments reveal what may not be mended again.

The Broken Leaf

The snow fell in soft flurries over the city and cloaked the cracked asphalt and narrow streets in white. Maggie tugged her husband by the hand toward the ceramics café. The interior carried the scent of clay and sun-warmed dust. They sat across from each other at a long craft table, their fingers still numbed from the cold. 

A lump of clay lay between them. 

“I’m no good at art.” Hassan jabbed his thumb too hard into the clay. 

“You promised to try new things with me,” Maggie said. She smoothed her own piece, shaping it into the soft edges of a maple leaf. 

“This is too hard. I didn’t learn this in school like you did.” He took a sharp breath, then exhaled loud enough that a woman two seats down glanced over. 

“No one starts good. Just try. It takes practice. Here, like this—” 

Maggie reached over and gently pinched the lopsided rim of his cup. 

Hassan leaned back and rubbed his clay-stained hand over his temple. “Ugh, I have a headache.” 

He realized too late he had smeared clay across his forehead. 

“We’re already here. I paid for this. Let’s just have fun.” She carved fine grooves into her leaf with a toothpick. Hassan was still wrestling his cup into a cylinder-like shape. 

“You can’t control having fun,” he said under his breath. 

“No one is judging whether it’s good or not.” 

They placed their work in the kiln. 

Outside the café’s window, sleet veiled the gray streets in a haze. Maggie swept the brush across the leaf, laying down careful strokes of yellow and orange to create a gradient. Hassan dragged a coarse brush over his crooked cup, streaking it with bright red. 

“I don’t really see the point,” he said. “You said this would be relaxing.” 

Maggie glanced over at his work. Behind Hassan, tendrils of ice crept along the window. 

“It is.” 

Maggie lifted the finished leaf. Hassan snatched it from her. It slipped. The sharp crack echoed off the table. 

“What did you do that for?” She rose from her seat. Her cheeks burned as others stared. 

“I’m going home.” 

“No, wait. I need to fix this.” Maggie scooped up a broken piece and grabbed a heated glue gun from across the table. She squeezed glue along the fragment’s jagged edges, hands trembling. 

The café door slammed. A rush of winter air swept through the room. 

When she tried to fit the pieces together, the leaf slid from her fingers, hitting the table with a softer, final break.