Rain lashed the familiar ridge as I pushed through the dripping ferns, heart pounding not from exertion, but anticipation. A year’s absence felt like a lifetime. My beloved lean-to, my sanctuary, was a skeletal ruin—rotted saplings, moss swallowing the hearthstones, the roof long surrendered to wind and time. Yet, the hollow itself welcomed me, whispering resilience. Kneeling in the damp earth, I gathered fallen branches, my hands remembering the old rhythms. Sparks flew anew on charred punk wood. This wasn’t just rebuilding shelter; it was rekindling the primal pact with the wild, stitch by patient stitch, proving survival isn’t a lesson learned once, but a practice eternally renewed.
