I take a slow breath and force myself to move.
There’s an unmade daybed shoved against one wall, the mattress thin but serviceable.
A small TV sits on a tiny stand that’s seen better decades.
A coffee table squats awkwardly in front of it, like it’s unsure of its purpose.
On the opposite side is a kitchenette—one floor cabinet, a sink, a hotplate, and a mini fridge that is frankly trying its best.
And then—I grin.
A stacked washer and dryer sit tucked neatly into the corner.
“Well,” I murmur, “that’s a perk.”
That alone feels like a minor miracle.
The lights flick on suddenly, brightness flooding the space.
It doesn’t transform anything.
The cabin is still small.
Still ugly.
Still utilitarian in a way that makes it clear no one was ever meant to live here—just exist between shifts.
But it’s solid.
It’s warm-able—is that a word?
It’s lockable.
It’s mine.
“I can make this work,” I whisper, blinking fast as emotion threatens to overwhelm me.
I’ve had more. Much more.
A real kitchen.
A living room with throw pillows I didn’t pick out, but still.
Clothes hanging neatly in a closet instead of folded into bags.
Vacations. Dinners out.
Comfort that came with conditions I didn’t understand until it was almost too late.
The life I lived before was a trap, a cage.
Freedom is all that matters to me now.
That’s what I want, what I need.
I always worked hard. I never expected life handed to me.
And if the cost of my freedom is being a little uncomfortable?
