Snow whispers through fir boughs as I bank the fire and seal my timber-and-stone haven against the frost. Thick wool curtains, beeswax-sealed logs, a cast-iron stove humming lullabies of heat. Pine-scented steam curls from cedar mugs; rabbit stew simmers slow. My boots dry by the hearth, wool socks piled like blessings. Outside, the wind howls—inside, silence glows amber. I live by candlelight and woodsmoke, seasons my calendar. No roads, no rush—just crackling warmth, owl songs, and deep, earth-held peace. This forest house? Not survival. Sanctuary. Soul-warmed. Winter-welcomed. Home.
