Okay. Fine. That’s kind of adorable.
The town itself is straight out of a postcard. Quaint little shops with deep porches and flower boxes. A diner with a hand-painted sign. A general store with rocking chairs out front. Everything tucked between mountains that look soft in the afternoon light and endless forests of pine and cedar.
Gaby was right. This is real air.
By the time I follow my directions onto a narrower road and then an even narrower one, my chest feels a little less tight. The cabin finally comes into view through the trees, and I actually gasp.
“Oh,” I whisper.
It is perfect.
Small and tucked away under tall evergreens, the cabin looks like something from a winter romance movie. Weathered wood. Stone chimney. Tiny porch. Smoke-dark roof. There’s even a little railing lined with empty flower boxes waiting for spring.
I park, climb out, and just stand there for a second with my duffel in one hand.
The air is crisp and cool enough to kiss my cheeks. Pine and damp earth and something clean I do not have a name for fill my lungs so deeply it almost hurts.
For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe all the way down.
Inside, the place is even sweeter.
One room, just like Gaby said. Cozy and warm in a way that immediately loosens something in me.
A big bed sits against the far wall under a patchwork quilt in soft reds and cream. A tiny kitchen lines one side of the room with butcher block counters, open shelves, and a cute little retro fridge.
There’s a narrow wooden table with two chairs by the window, and on the opposite side is a stone fireplace with two cushioned armchairs in front of it angled toward each other like they’re meant for late-night confessions.
A small door near the back opens to a bathroom with a clawfoot tub that nearly makes me emotional.
I set my bags on the floor and turn in a slow circle.
“It’s perfect,” I murmur.
Gaby really does love me.
I spend the next twenty minutes unpacking just enough to make the place feel mine for the weekend. Clothes in the dresser. Toiletries in the bathroom. Makeup bag on the little vanity mirror by the bed. I plug in my phone, open the curtains, and then immediately close them halfway again because apparently being alone in the woods has made me weirdly aware of windows.
The silence out here is different.
Not empty. Full.
Branches tapping lightly outside. The whisper of wind through trees. The old cabin settling around me.
It should feel lonely.
Instead, it feels like a hand on my head gently telling me to hush.
I make tea and carry the mug over to one of the chairs by the fireplace, curling my legs under me. This is where I should think about practical things. About job applications and savings and whether I can afford to keep my apartment if I do not find work soon.
Instead, I pull out my phone and open the notes app where I keep scraps of article ideas, little observations, fragments of sentences I never show anyone.
I’ve wanted to write for as long as I can remember.
Not assist. Not organize someone else’s calendar. Not chase down missing graphics and correct captions and schedule social posts while more important people get to put their names on the things that matter.
Write.
But every time I got close to admitting that out loud, something happened. Bills. Stress. Darren needing money. Darren needing reassurance. Darren needing snacks, apparently, because lord forbid a grown man forage for himself.
