I discovered a text file with this in it, in January 2016. It looks like it was supposed to be a four-part story, but I only wrote (part of?) the first part.
Season of Wishes
Despite the growing cold, despite the falling leaves, Autumn had been for so long the season in which beginnings began and wishes were wished; the season in which the fire outside died and the fires in our hearts were rekindled. And then, one year after so many, the leaves fell from the trees and nothing new began.
The previous Autumn had begun with a wish, for he knew that it would be his last in the world he knew. He wished never to forget, and never to let anyone forget, the year that was to come. It was not a wish made lightly, for this boy believed more than anything else in the world in the power of wishes, and because this boy knew that memories could be painful as well as fantastical. But the wish was made nevertheless, and so the year that followed drenched itself in emotion. The boy fell in and out of love, laughed and cried so much, and quite without expecting it the year was over.
It became the season of wishes once more, and yet the boy felt numb. His wish had come true, but the memories were already beginning to chill him. That year, there was not so much to wish for. There was merely a frantic grasping at the memories that had already passed, a determination not to let them go, those memories of a world so close and so recent yet now so far gone and so far away that they felt all but unreachable.
Days seemed shorter, not just than the long Summer light but shorter than they rightfully should be. The time seemed to him less intense also; less full of things than time used to be. What once was a life so full that sleep seemed a waste, now became just a few scant days in a whole season.