Frost clung to my beard as I hammered the last wall panel into place. Three days of relentless labor—hauling timber, sealing gaps, wrestling frozen nails—left my hands raw but my shelter whole. Snow fell softly, muffling the forest’s silence. Alone, I’d fought the cold’s bite, racing dusk each day to raise walls before night’s deep freeze. Now, smoke curled from the stovepipe, warming rough-hewn beams. Outside, winter reigned; inside, solitude felt less like loneliness and more like quiet triumph. The house stood—not perfect, but mine. In this frozen stillness, I’d built more than shelter; I’d carved peace from the wild.
