I built a rustic log cabin deep in the forest, hand-hewn from pine and cedar. Next came the firewood shed—stacked neatly under a sloped roof of bark and spruce boughs, ready for winter’s chill. The front door? A heavy slab with a hand-carved latch, creaking softly as I stepped inside. Each evening, I cooked over the open campfire: wild mushrooms sizzling in butter, venison stew bubbling in a cast-iron pot, fresh bread wrapped in cloth beside the embers. The scent of woodsmoke clung to my clothes, the stars blazed overhead, and silence settled like a blanket. This wasn’t just shelter—it was sanctuary, carved by hand, warmed by flame, and lived in fully.
