John passed away at the end of that summer, never knowing marriage or children or human old age, but it felt like a full life to him. He had known the joy of sunshine and the peaceful rest of night, the orgasmic bliss of pollination, and the contentment of forming seeds that would become his progeny. He had endured the thirsty fatigue of wilting during a brief summer drought, and the satiating ecstasy of stormy rains that soaked his roots in muddy earth. Mostly, he only experienced the slow tranquility of life as a plant. His suspenseful days as a thief scouring the houses for food and trinkets had faded into a vague, unsettling memory, too exhausting even to think about. He never again felt hunger, since his body made its own food every day from the warm light shining on his leaves.
As the browning sunflower decayed beside it, a massive oak was dropping reddish leaves from its many branches. Chris was getting ready to spend the winter as a tree for the first time, and it was a very sleepy feeling. He knew his partner in crime was dying; plants and fungi have ways to sort of talk to each other through the ground. It was sad, but it was the natural way of things, and Chris was much too tired to reflect on it right now. He would wake up fresh again in the spring, though, and sprout his leaves all over again. He could live indefinitely in this state, centuries if nothing happened. He wanted to feel the nourishing sun on his leaves again, and the tickle of dropping acorns. He hoped his roots would spread a little closer to the big source of water he was sensing just a little further to the east. For now, though, it was time to settle in for his hiatus. The icy winds would be blowing soon enough.
John and Chris never knew that the witch had came and got her stuff back the day after they finished transforming, since they no longer had eyes and ears at that point. They wouldn't have cared, though, except to thank her. Who needs money and heirlooms when there is water and air and soil for the taking?