Alone in the silent woods, I wrestled with colossal logs for my cabin bed. No help, just me, my axe, and sheer stubbornness. Each timber—thick, heavy, smelling of pine resin—had to be hauled, notched, and precisely fitted. My muscles screamed, sweat stung my eyes, but the vision drove me: a bed wide enough for dreams, sturdy enough to last generations. Hours blurred into days of measuring, sawing, and pounding pegs. Finally, as dusk painted the pines gold, I stood back. The massive frame stood solid against the rough-hewn walls—a testament to solitude, sweat, and the quiet triumph of building something enduring, entirely alone.
