Winter’s breath nips at the pines, and my rustic log cabin needs armor—starting with the floor. Last week’s draft whistled through knotholes like a ghostly warning. Kneeling on splintered planks, I’ve layered thick pine boards salvaged from fallen timber, sealing every gap with beeswax and grit. My hands ache, but warmth matters more now. With snow expected by month’s end, this floor isn’t just wood—it’s the barrier between survival and surrender. Alone, yes, but self-reliant. Every nail driven is a vow: I’ll ride out the freeze, grounded, prepared, and fiercely proud.
