The Last Leaf: The Leaf That Wouldn’t Fall

Counting down

Johnsy counted the leaves outside her window. Five. Four. “When the last one falls,” she told Sue, “I’ll go too.”

An unfinished life

Pneumonia had kept her in bed for days. She used to talk about painting the Bay of Naples. Now she only counted leaves.

Someone stayed

Sue brought broth, followed the doctor’s instructions, and drew beside the bed to earn their rent. Johnsy watched the vine.

Not yet painted

Downstairs lived Behrman. For years he had promised to paint a masterpiece. The canvas waiting for it was still blank.

A quiet witness

Sue told him about the leaves. He stopped grumbling. Upstairs, they stood at the window while sleet struck the glass.

Behind the blind

That night, Sue lowered the blind. The wind shook it against the frame. Behind her, Johnsy kept listening.

One remained

At dawn, Johnsy asked to see. Sue raised the blind. Against the rain-dark bricks, one green-and-yellow leaf remained.

The long day

“It will fall today.” Sue sat beside her. “Then let me stay here with you.” All day, they watched it together.

A different question

Another night of rain. Another morning. The leaf was still there. Johnsy looked away from the window. “Could I have some broth?”

Something to finish

She ate a little. Later, she asked for her drawing things. With rest and care, the doctor said, she was getting stronger.

The empty room

When Johnsy was out of danger, Sue sat down with difficult news. Behrman had died of pneumonia in the hospital.

What he left

They had found his clothes soaked through. Outside lay a ladder, a lantern, and brushes stained green and yellow.

The last leaf

Johnsy looked at the leaf. The vine beside it stirred. The leaf did not. Behrman had painted it on the wall.

A place to stay

He painted it in the storm, the night the last real leaf fell. After all those years, Behrman had made something she could hold on to.