I stood there, staring at the fresh stumps, the remnants of my sycamores, feeling a whirlpool of emotions swelling inside me. The crisp breeze rustled the leaves of the few remaining trees, whispering secrets of a past that was rapidly being rendered unrecognizable. The sycamores had been more than just trees; they were a part of my heritage, my history—a living connection to my father and the man he was. Now they were gone, reduced to nothing but sawdust and emptiness, for the sake of a view. Mara’s eyes mirrored my own anger, an intense fire burning behind her gaze...
Continues…