The streetlights cast long shadows across the yard, revealing a gaping void where our tree had once stretched its branches over the fence. A pit formed in my stomach. The tension between my parents was silent but sharp. Mr. Collins had lied.
At the kitchen table, the laptop screen glowed on his smiling face—so friendly, so familiar—yet completely at odds with the truth we now knew. Betrayal isn’t just about things; it’s about trust, and that had been cut down along with our tree.
“We can’t let this go,” my mother said firmly. “That tree was part of our family.”
My father nodded, his jaw tight. “This isn’t just about wood and leaves. We need to report it.”
The next morning, we took our evidence—footage, timestamps, and a detailed account—to the city’s municipal office. The official listened closely, concern growing in her eyes as the story unfolded.
“Property disputes can be tricky,” she said, “but removing a tree without permission is a serious matter. We’ll investigate.”
Back home, the empty backyard mocked us. Sunlight fell on bare ground where leafy whispers once danced. The tree had been a silent witness to our lives, a keeper of memories, and its absence was deafening. Days passed with no word, and Mr. Collins carried on as if nothing had changed.
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