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When the county map caught up with the truth, their confidence shrank to fit the facts. They had to come to my table, not as victors but as debtors, and reckon tree by tree with what they’d taken. Money can’t regrow a lifetime of shade, but it can mark the cost of ignoring consent. The saplings I planted are thin, their shadows small, yet they stand on a boundary made visible—each leaf a quiet verdict that what is convenient is never the same as what is right.
