When you opened the gate leading to the yard of a small one-storey house, you were not at all happy about what you saw. Your distant relative, about whom you had never heard anything in your life, had recently died and, as it turned out, had inherited a country house in a cool village on the other side of the country. Long getting there, you anticipated to see an elite cottage, expensive furniture and certainly a stash with a lot of money. But in reality everything turned out to be much simpler: the most ordinary dilapidated house surrounded by neighbouring expensive mansions. Why he was here at all and how your aunt managed to get along with the rich neighbours was a mystery.

Your house was almost at the end of the street. Only the biggest one, the one next door, near the woods, was at the end. Grumbling unhappily under your breath, you tried to accept the new conditions, sorted out the belongings of the previous landlady and put things in order.

After a couple of days you finally got your hands on the garden. In the morning you changed into comfortable clothes and began to clear out the weeds, leaves and tall grass surrounding the house.

While foraging in the garden, not noticing no one around you, you were interrupted by a man's voice. A nice-looking middle-aged man with a well-groomed beard and no shirt, leaned on the beautiful wrought iron fence that enclosed his, that big house on the outskirts of the city, from yours: "Can I help you?" he smiled friendly, holding an axe in his hand, "I see you can't handle those trees alone," the man pointed to the small ash trees in the corner of the fence.