The foreman's booming voice cut through the quiet of the morning. "Alright, everyone! Last chance to grab your souvenirs! We start the demo in an hour!" Clara's jaw tightened. Souvenirs? From *her* house? She had lived there for twenty-two years. It was more than just a building; it was a repository of memories, a place where she had become who she was. She strode toward the house, her boots crunching on the gravel, her hands clenched into fists. She needed to be alone.
The interior was already stripped. Bare studs and dangling wires were a stark contrast to the familiar wallpaper she'd helped her mother pick out. She ran a hand across the bare wall where her family photos once hung. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest. The foreman’s words echoed in her mind. *Souvenirs*. As if it were a cheap trinket, something to be discarded.
She spotted the foreman heading towards the old oak tree in the front yard. He was carrying a measuring tape. She stormed towards him, her voice strained. "What are you doing?" she demanded, the words sharp as broken glass. He jumped a little. "Just figuring out the best way to drop the old girl, miss," he said with a shrug, his eyes avoiding hers. "Wouldn't want to damage any of the trees." She felt a flush rising in her neck.