A month later, the neighborhood was quiet. The oppressive, dictatorial atmosphere that had choked the subdivision was gone.
Elias sat on his wooden porch in his favorite rocking chair, a fresh cup of black coffee in his hand. He wore his old, faded flannel shirt and his scuffed work boots. He looked out over the identical houses, then reached out and patted the rough, 150-year-old timber beam supporting his roof. The developer had built the world around him, and a tyrant had tried to steal it from him, but the roots of this house went far deeper than any of them could ever comprehend. Elias took a sip of his coffee, the large American flag waving gently in the afternoon breeze, his island of history forever unbroken.