As the stars began to poke through the velvet sky, Ion knew his answer. The house would stay. It would weather the storms and witness the seasons, a silent guardian of a lineage that no currency could ever claim.
Ion walked into the yard. He ran his hand over the rough bark of the old walnut tree. He could almost hear the echo of a violin from the porch, a doina that used to drift through the valley during the harvest moon. Selling this place wouldn't just mean signing a deed; it would mean selling the memory of his first steps, the scent of fresh bread from the clay oven, and the very ground that held his family's roots.
Lately, strangers in polished shoes had been visiting the village. They spoke of "progress," "villas," and "investment." They looked at the garden—the one where his mother had planted peonies and basil— and saw only square meters and profit.
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