The wind sighs through ancient pines as I push open the cabin’s groaning door. Inside, dust motes dance in the weak light. My boots crunch on frost-rimed floorboards. Scritch-scratch—I sweep debris with bundled twigs. Thump-thump—I stack dry logs in the stone hearth. The rasp of flint on steel sparks warmth; hiss-pop, the kindling catches. I smooth rough-hewn planks, wipe grime from the single window with a damp cloth—shhhk, shhhk. Outside, the vast, white silence presses close. But here, within these weathered logs, the crackling fire’s gentle snap-crackle and the soft whump of settling snow on the roof weave a cocoon. Safe. Alone. Perfectly still.
