Alone in the woods, he built his sanctuary one stubborn step at a time. With weathered oak planks salvaged from an old barn, he crafted a rugged mini-porch—wide enough for boots, coffee, and quiet sunrises. Inside, he installed a cast-iron hot stove, its chimney piercing the ceiling like a silent sentinel. He welded the flue himself, lined the hearth with river stones, and lit the first fire as dusk fell. Smoke curled into pines; warmth pooled on the floor. No neighbors. No noise. Just heat, woodsmoke, and the hum of solitude. His shelter wasn’t just built—it was breathed into life.
