My grandparents lived on that quiet hillside for more than forty years, long enough for every tree, stone, and summer breeze to feel like part of their story. Clarence and Harriet built their lives there piece by piece—an oak tree planted the year my mother was born, the wind chimes Clarence crafted in his workshop, the stone steps Harriet swept every morning. Their home overlooked a peaceful valley, with an empty steep lot next door that had always stayed untouched. They cherished that calm. They had earned it.
Then one afternoon, everything changed.
Harriet called me first. Her voice trembled, though she tried to hide it. “Ellis, there are machines cutting into the hill. They’re on our property.”
I tried to reassure her. “Maybe they’re close to the line?”
“No,” she said softly. “I know our markers. They’re on our land.”
She had walked that boundary for decades. She knew every inch of it. But still, I hoped it was a simple mistake. Contractors sometimes read maps wrong. GPS can drift. Anything was possible. But when Clarence returned from the doctor and drove up the hill, the truth was impossible to ignore. A fresh cut ran across their yard. A long, winding driveway for the lot next door—and it clearly crossed onto their property.
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