Rain taps the roof as I sand cedar scraps, my treehouse sanctuary sealed against winter’s bite. Below, the world freezes; up here, a single lantern glows. My hands shape a tiny home for sparrows—a promise of spring. Alone, yes, but not lonely. Each nail tapped into miniature walls echoes in the quiet. This refuge holds me: insulated walls, steaming mug, the scent of pine. Outside, wind howls. Inside, I craft shelter within shelter—a birdhouse for future wings, a treehouse for my own. Survival isn’t just enduring cold; it’s building warmth, however small, and waiting.
