Question

The preservation of the old dock was not, as the town council claimed, a matter of historical pride. To me, it was a ledger of summers spent watching the tide drag silt across the salt marsh, a structure whose slowly rotting pine beams held the weight of my childhood. When the demolition crews arrived in late autumn, they brought with them the cold, efficient language of progress—phrases like 'structural liability' and 'recreational zoning.' They spoke of the dock as if it were a math problem to be solved, completely blind to the fact that its very decay was part of the river’s rhythm. I stood at the edge of the gravel road, notebook in hand, ostensibly to document the event for the local historical society, but in truth, I was there to keep a silent vigil. As the first excavator claw tore into the pier, the splintering wood sounded like a sharp intake of breath. The workers did not pause; they were merely agents of a distant municipal will, eager to finish before the first snowfall. But for those of us who had carved our initials into the handrails, the loss was not measured in timber or concrete, but in the sudden, quiet vacancy of the shoreline.

Which of the following best describes the narrator's point of view regarding the demolition of the old dock?