She’d bought the house for that tree. Its massive, mottled limbs had stretched over the roofline like protective arms, and in the autumn, the yard was a sea of gold. The real estate agent had called it “charming.” The inspector had noted “routine maintenance.” Neither had mentioned the root’s secret war, fought underground, inch by silent inch.
It wasn't a flood—not yet. It was a creeping damp, a dark stain widening across the concrete floor like a bruise. The sump pump whirred, a frantic mechanical heart, but it was losing the battle. Every few minutes, a wet, sucking gurgle echoed from the pipes. The outside drain was clogged again. outside drain clogged