Frost feathered its granite walls for decades, the river silent beside it. Abandoned, roofless, it stood as a monument to winters past. Then came the carpenter with salvaged timber and stubborn hope. He rebuilt the hearth, glazed the windows, coaxed warmth back into cold stone. Now smoke curls above the frozen current, and lamplight pools on snow-dusted banks. The house breathes again—not as it was, but wiser, bearing the river’s patience in its bones. Winter still comes, but no longer stays. Inside, a fire crackles. Outside, the ice gleams, witness to resurrection.
