Staying in an abandoned brick house during a snowdrift was eerie yet peaceful. Wind howled through broken windows as snow piled high against the door. Inside, dust danced in flashlight beams; fire crackled in the rusted hearth. Every creak echoed like a ghost’s whisper. I wrapped myself in blankets, sipping tea from a dented pot, listening to the storm’s fury outside. The bricks held warmth, history, silence. Alone but not afraid, I felt strangely sheltered — as if the house, forgotten by time, chose to protect me. Dawn would come. Until then, stillness reigned.
