Rain drifts through the forest like smoke as I cross a cold river and slip into my log earth shelter—a small room under the roots of the world. Inside: dust, webs, and the quiet breath of the stove waiting. I sweep the floor with a twig broom, stack damp firewood by the door, and touch a match to old iron. Warmth moves through the room like a heartbeat.
I lift the loose plank and check the barrel stash beneath, then chase mold from the wall with a hiss of the gas torch—stone and wood darken, clean, and steam. Dinner is eggs with sausage in the glow of the fire; tea fogs the tin cup while rain drums the earth roof. Outside there are only wet leaves, mushrooms, and the slow footsteps of the night. A trail camera blinks once—later I’ll see a moose walking past like a shadow.
Morning comes gray and kind. I replace rotten logs in the wall, rehang the door, and breathe the sharp scent of autumn rain. Then the river again, the little boat, the soft beat of water on wood. The shelter cools behind me, but its warmth stays in the hands.
No talking — ASMR rain, tools, stove and quiet forest.
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