The world vanished beyond the frosted panes. Outside, the snowstorm raged—a furious white shroud swallowing the pines whole. Inside my log cabin, the only sounds were the crackle of birch logs in the stone hearth and the soft sigh of the wind seeking entry. Kerosene lanterns cast warm, dancing shadows on rough-hewn walls. I stirred a pot of stew on the woodstove, its steam fogging the cold glass. No grid hummed here, no distant sirens—just the elemental hush of deep winter and the quiet satisfaction of self-reliance. The storm could howl; within these thick logs, I was safe, warm, and utterly content in my forest solitude.
