Tommy
On the path home, the woods felt like they were pressing close on either side, their shadows deeper than they had been that morning. I kicked at a stone, watched it skitter over the dirt, and tried to shake the heaviness clinging to me.
Emma's smile still lingered in my mind — small, hesitant, but real. The way her hands had curled around that book, like I'd given her something far more precious than a simple volume of poetry, made my chest ache in a way I couldn't explain. I'd never wanted anything more than I wanted to see that look on her face again.
But then her father's words echoed back, low and heavy: things changing faster than most of us can keep up with.
He wasn't talking about sickness. He wasn't even talking about the troubles that came with raising five children. He was talking about what I already knew — the land, the woods, the houses soon to rise from the earth where Emma and I had met again and again. My father's plans. My family's progress.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, hating how small I felt. For all my talk about helping Emma, what had I really done? Bought her a book. A nice thought, maybe, but not enough to stop her life from being torn apart.
The lake glimmered between the trees, sunlight flashing like electricity, but even that view felt different now. If the houses were built, if the woods were cut down, would there even be a place left for Emma?
A lump lodged in my throat. I'd promised myself I wouldn't let her disappear, but promises made by boys carried little weight in the world of men like my father.
And still… I couldn't stop myself from holding onto that picture of her smile. That flicker of hope in her eyes when she'd whispered "see you soon."
Soon couldn't come fast enough.
Emma
I sat on my bed with the book in my lap, the late afternoon light spilling across the hard cover. My hands trembled slightly as I traced the letters of the title, half-afraid I'd wake up and find it gone.
A gift. For me.
It wasn't even the book itself — though the words inside, about rivers and trees and the quiet strength of ordinary things, already tugged at something deep in me — it was the fact that Tommy had thought of me. That he'd walked into a shop and picked this out because he wanted to give it to me and he believed I would like it.
No one had ever done that before. Not my mum, who barely noticed whether I was there or not. Not my brother or sisters, who relied on me, but never thought to give something back. Not even my father, who loved us but whose life was too consumed with work and weariness to see me as anything other than another responsibility.
But Tommy… he saw me.
I pressed the book to my chest, eyes stinging. And yet, the warmth of that thought twisted with something colder. Because I also remembered the way my father's jaw had tightened as he mentioned "things changing."
The way his voice had carried a heaviness I knew too well.
We were losing everything.
I opened the book to the first poem and tried to read, but the words blurred. My mind kept sliding back to Tommy's eyes, the way he'd looked at me as though I mattered, and the way reality sat like a stormcloud between us.
Maybe I shouldn't let myself fall like this — fall for him. Not when too soon, we'd be gone.
But as I flipped another page, my heart betrayed me. Because all I wanted was to see him again, hear him laugh, maybe tell another silly joke. To forget, even for a little while, the storm that was coming.
And so I read, slowly, my lips moving with the words on the page, imagining his voice beside me, steady and sure.
For the first time in days, I let myself smile.
Tommy
I was halfway down the hall when I heard it. Father's voice, sharp and low, the kind of tone he used when he he wasn't happy with someone. The study door stood slightly ajar, just enough for me to catch the words.
"…the planning committee are dragging their feet again. Even after what we promised those officers."
Another voice — Mr. Clarke, his friend. "They're nervous, Jonathan. Some of the townsfolk are already muttering about the woods. If anyone makes too much noise —"
"That's what the money was for," Father snapped. "To keep them quiet. The last thing we need is a fuss over a few trees."
I froze, my hand on the bannister. My pulse thudded in my ears. So it was true. They weren't just building houses — they were buying their way past anyone who might stand in the way.
A rush of heat surged through me, anger and shame tangled tight. Emma's family was losing their home, her father his livelihood, and here was mine — sitting in a leather chair, throwing money at men to clear the path for destruction.
"Progress," Father called it. I called it something else.
I backed away before they noticed me, retreating into the darkened corridor. My mind was buzzing too loud to hear anything else they said.
If bribery was what kept the wheels turning, maybe there was another way to stop them. Or at least slow them down.
That was when I remembered my aunt.
Father's sister, Stephanie, lived in London. She was the one relative no one mentioned at family gatherings — the environmentalist, the protestor, the one who wrote fiery letters to newspapers about endangered birds and polluted rivers. Father always scoffed at her, called her "idealistic" like it was a curse. But she listened. She cared about things he dismissed.
And she had influence. More than me, at least.
I pictured her at my grandfather's house last Christmas, sitting cross-legged on the floor while the rest of the family perched on stiff armchairs. She'd told me once that protecting wild places wasn't just about trees and animals — it was about people, too. About protecting their roots, their homes. That made me think of Emma's family.
My heart hammered. If I wrote to her, told her what was happening — about the bribes, about the woods being flattened — maybe she could help. Maybe she could stir up enough noise that Father and his men couldn't silence it with money.
It was a reckless thought. Dangerous, even. If Father ever found out I'd gone against him, I'd pay for it. But the image of Emma, clutching that book to her chest, pushed the fear aside.
She deserved better than to lose everything because of men like him.
I slipped upstairs to my room, shutting the door behind me. At my desk, I pulled out paper and pen, my hand trembling as I tried to steady it.
For the first time in days, I felt something like hope.