Rain whispered against cedar shingles as he stepped inside the cabin he’d raised with his own hands. Dust motes danced in the slanted afternoon light; the scent of aged pine and damp earth filled the air. Outside, the river murmured its endless song. He ran calloused fingers over the rough-hewn table—still solid, still his. No phone, no distractions—just crackling firewood, the soft creak of floorboards, and the gentle lap of water against stone. For twenty-four hours, time slowed. In solitude, he remembered why he built this place: not to escape the world, but to hear his own quiet breath again.
