It was a quiet summer evening, the kind where cicadas buzz like a background soundtrack and porch lights flicker on one by one. We were halfway through a movie when the wind picked up, rattling the windows. At first, it was just a breeze. Then it turned into a roar.

Out back, the maple tree swayed like a dancer who’d lost her rhythm. We’d always admired that tree—its shade in July, its fiery leaves in October. But that night, it had other plans. With a crack that echoed like thunder, one of its heavy limbs snapped free and dove straight into the power line.

The house went dark instantly. The movie froze mid-scene, the air conditioner sighed its last breath, and the silence was so complete it felt like the world had paused. We stumbled around with flashlights, laughing at how suddenly modern life had been stripped away. No Wi-Fi, no fridge hum, no glowing screens—just us, the dark, and the tree outside, smug in its victory.

Neighbors gathered in the street, swapping theories about how long the outage would last. Someone joked that the maple had finally gotten tired of being ignored and wanted attention. Another said it was revenge for all the leaf raking every fall. Whatever the reason, the tree had made itself unforgettable.

By midnight, we sat on the porch, listening to the crickets and telling stories we hadn’t shared in years. The blackout stretched into the next morning, but instead of frustration, it felt like a gift. The maple had taken our electricity, but it had given us a night we’d never forget.