Orrin had always lived in the forest, surrounded by trees that stretched skyward like ancient sentinels. His parents had raised him there, on the sprawling land they called their farm, though it was more of a living forest than a traditional field. The woods were his sanctuary, his treasure. From the age of five, Orrin had helped plant saplings, nurturing the land with his parents, always with the belief that one day the trees would be worth more than gold. The woods were supposed to be his dream come true—a future of endless possibilities.

But that dream, like many others, turned to dust the day his parents died in a car crash.

Now 36, Orrin lived alone on the forest farm, just him and the trees. He had inherited the land, a house that creaked like it shared his grief, and the woods, which stood as a living memory of the life he had lost. He felt the weight of that inheritance every day, especially since it had started—the company. They’d sent letters first, polite and corporate. “Dear Mr. Orrin, We’ve noticed the prime location of your land and its valuable timber. We’d like to discuss purchasing your woods for development…”

He had ignored the letters, of course. The trees weren’t for sale. But then came the visit.

Three men in neon vests and hard hats had shown up with chainsaws, followed by Sasha, the company secretary, in her sharp heels and sharper tongue.

"Mr. Orrin," she had said, brushing sawdust off her clipboard. "We're here to begin clearing the trees as part of the development project. If you want to discuss the terms, now's the time."

Orrin stood on his porch, staring at her like she'd spoken in tongues. "No one's cutting my trees. This is my land. Get off it."

Sasha gave him a blank look, clearly not used to being refused. She motioned to the workers, who revved their chainsaws. "With all due respect, Mr. Orrin, the company’s already started. We're offering good money. It's just wood, after all."

"Just wood?" Orrin felt something crack inside him. "These trees are my life. You won’t touch them."

The absurdity of the situation was only just starting to hit him. Here he was, standing in his worn-out boots, facing down a crew of loggers and a woman in business attire, trying to defend trees as if they were kin. But to Orrin, they were. The trees had seen him through the death of his parents, the endless days of loneliness, and now, these strangers wanted to turn his dreams into sawdust.

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One of the workers stepped forward, chainsaw roaring to life. He walked toward the nearest tree, and something in Orrin snapped. He bolted from the porch, grabbing a fallen branch as if it were a weapon. The worker hesitated, unsure of what this wild-eyed man was about to do. Orrin waved the branch like a madman, chasing the man off with a burst of words that were half-threat, half-lunatic babble. The chainsaw sputtered to a stop, and the worker backed off, shaking his head in disbelief.

"This isn’t over," Sasha said coldly, stepping back but making a call on her phone. "We’ll see what legal action we can take."

Over the next few days, the company tried other tricks. Orrin woke one morning to find new signs staked around his property: "Development Project: Future Site of Greenway Estates." He tore them down, hurling them into the woods.

Then came the phone calls, the legal letters, the ridiculous offers. At one point, Sasha even offered to "sweeten the deal" with a dinner invitation that made Orrin choke on his coffee. Dark humor clung to the whole situation, like a bad joke playing out in real time.

Finally, the absurdity reached its peak when the workers tried sneaking onto his land at night. Orrin, ever vigilant, had been waiting for them, sitting in his rocking chair on the porch with a shotgun resting across his knees. He didn’t even have to fire it—just the sight of him in the moonlight, with a crazed grin and a rifle, was enough to send them scrambling back into their truck.

But the conflict was far from over. The company escalated, filing a lawsuit claiming eminent domain. They argued that Orrin’s land was of "significant public interest," and development was inevitable. Sasha, ever the professional, showed up at the hearing in a perfectly pressed suit, while Orrin arrived in a flannel shirt, still smelling faintly of pine.

The judge took one look at the paperwork, then at Orrin, and sighed. The case dragged on, a bureaucratic nightmare, and it became clear that Orrin's dream of protecting his woods was slipping away. Every day he fought, the company tightened its grip. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming. Here he was, a man defending his childhood dreams, alone against a faceless corporation that saw his life’s work as nothing more than profit.

One morning, Orrin walked deep into the woods, beyond the reach of cell service, beyond the sound of chainsaws and hammers. He stood in the clearing where his parents had once planted the first sapling. The wind rustled through the trees, whispering a language only he understood.

For a brief moment, he imagined what it would be like to give up, to let the trees fall and take the money, but he couldn’t. These woods had grown with him, through loss and loneliness, and now, they were the only family he had left.

The world around him might be absurd, but in the heart of the forest, where dreams still whispered through the leaves, he found a peace no company could ever take.

But as the court date loomed, even Orrin knew—dreams, like forests, eventually turn to dust.