The questions hung in the air like ghosts, refusing to be exorcised until we had answers. I decided to do some digging of my own. While my parents were preoccupied, I slipped away to my room, my laptop under my arm.

A quick search online revealed a wealth of information on illegal tree removal and the black market for rare woods. But somehow, I doubted this was a simple case of lumber theft. There was something more to it — the silence, the precision, and, most of all, Mr. Collins’ involvement.

I turned to social media, hoping to find a local group or forum where residents discussed neighborhood issues. A few scrolls through various posts brought me to a thread titled “Strange Occurrences in Oakwood.” My heart skipped as I read stories similar to ours. Old trees disappearing, sometimes entire gardens altered without permission or explanation.

I posted our experience, hoping someone might have an idea or a similar story to tell. Within minutes, the thread was alive with responses, but none offered a concrete answer. One comment, however, stood out: “Check the old town records. Some trees have roots deeper than history.”

Puzzled but intrigued, I decided to follow the advice. The next day, I headed to the town’s archives, a dusty, forgotten building nestled between newer, shinier structures. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of aged paper and neglect. A gray-haired curator looked up as I entered, her eyes curious.

“I’m looking for records on properties on Elm Street,” I explained, hoping she wouldn’t ask too many questions.

The woman nodded and disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves. When she returned, she handed me a stack of yellowed documents tied with fraying twine.

“Be careful with these,” she advised. “Some histories have a way of getting lost.”

Back home, I spread the documents across my desk. Hours passed as I poured over the information, piecing together a narrative of our neighborhood that I’d never known.

Among the records, I found land deeds, notes about expansions, and, finally, a survey from decades ago. It showed not just our property lines but an intricate map of roots — roots that spanned beneath several properties, including Mr. Collins’. The trees, it seemed, were part of a network, a silent community of their own.

But why was one cut down? Why now?

As the night deepened, I thought about our neighbors. Had they experienced something similar, or were they blissfully unaware of the silent war beneath their feet?

I knew one thing for sure: This was far from over. Someone, or something, had disturbed the balance. And as I shut the documents, one thought echoed in my mind: our tree may be gone, but its story was just beginning.