Rain patters softly on golden leaves as bare hands roll weathered logs into place. The earthy scent of damp clay rises—cool, smooth, heavy—as it’s packed between timbers. Axes tap gently, shaping notches; moss fills gaps like nature’s caulk. Each log settles with a quiet thump, echoing under grey skies. Raindrops slide down bark, pooling in hollows, while fingers smooth wet clay into seamless seams. No words—only the whisper of wind, the hush of rain, the crackle of settling wood. A sanctuary grows, stitch by silent stitch, woven from forest gifts and autumn’s steady breath. Peace hums in every grain.
