The log house stood silent, nestled deep in the pine forest. Each timber bore the scars of age and weather, yet held firm, whispering tales of solitude. Wind moaned through cracked windows, echoing forgotten footsteps. Inside, dust danced in shafts of pale light, settling on abandoned furniture. A rusted kettle hung above a cold hearth, memories smoldering beneath its silence. Outside, nature crept closer—roots splitting stone, moss swallowing nails. The structure resisted, defiant in isolation, guarding secrets only the trees would hear. A monument to resilience, standing alone against time’s slow decay.
