The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the overgrown lawn, mirroring the length of Amelia's own stillness. She watched from the kitchen window, her cheek pressed against the cold glass. Mr. Henderson, his face etched with a forced cheer, gestured at the towering oak that straddled their property line. The leaves, usually a vibrant green, seemed to droop today, the color muted by the approaching autumn. A hollowness settled in Amelia's chest, a space where laughter used to reside. She hadn’t watered the plants in days.
He was explaining the issue with the roots again. Amelia had heard it all before, the crack in his driveway, the potential damage. But the oak, her oak, provided the only real privacy she felt since… well, since everything. She barely nodded as he spoke, her gaze drifting beyond him to the skeletal remains of the birdhouse she and her son had built.
“So, what do you think, Amelia?” Mr. Henderson’s voice, a little too loud, broke through her internal fog. The weight of his question felt heavier than the approaching storm clouds gathering on the horizon. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. She just shrugged, and went back to staring out the window.