With bare hands and simple tools, I began my forest house—no nails, no power, no screens. Logs stacked, clay smoothed, stones fitted by feel. Rainwater caught in hollowed wood; fire sparked by flint. Days measured by sun, nights by stars. Neighbors? Foxes, owls, whispering pines. Every wall breathes earth; every beam holds sweat and silence. Mist rises with dawn, blessing the roof I wove from branches. This is not retreat—it’s return. To craft, to rhythm, to roots. Technology forgotten, humanity remembered—in moss, mud, and moonlight.
