The first hard frost etches the windowpane. Outside, the world bleeds autumn’s gold into skeletal grey. I bank the stove, its iron belly radiating stubborn warmth against the deepening chill. Snow whispers promises against the roof. Alone in this timber fortress, miles from the nearest plume of smoke, I feel the wilderness hold its breath. Supplies are stacked high—wood, beans, salted venison. The silence isn’t empty; it’s thick with anticipation. Winter isn’t just coming; it’s already at the door, testing the chinks in the logs. I pull my wool blanket tighter. This solitude isn’t loneliness—it’s readiness. The long night begins.
