The blizzard screamed above, a white fury scouring the plains. Below, in the earth-sheltered soddy, silence reigned—thick, damp, and blessedly still. Our primitive refuge, dug deep into the hillside and roofed with timber, sod, and desperation, held firm. Frost feathered the single small window, but the banked stove radiated stubborn warmth. We huddled close, sharing precious water and hardtack, listening to the wind’s rage muffled by tons of insulating earth. This crude burrow, smelling of soil and smoke, wasn’t just shelter; it was sanctuary. Outside, the world vanished in ice. Inside, our fragile humanity endured, one shared breath at a time, waiting for the storm to spend its wrath.
