There’s a town at the edge of a pine forest, where the houses are low and the wind smells like woodsmoke and sweetgrass. The roads are mostly gravel. The mailboxes lean a little to the side. And at the very end of a winding lane, tucked behind a thicket of blackberry bushes, there’s a tiny cabin with a green-painted door.
No one lives there full-time. But someone has been keeping it up: sweeping the porch, airing out the sheets, laying kindling in the stove. There’s a chipped mug on the windowsill, and a faded quilt folded over the back of a rocking chair. A little wooden sign on the wall says, “You made it.”
No one asks you why you’re here.
No one asks you what comes next.
You put your bag down. You boil water for tea. You sit in the rocking chair with a heavy blanket over your knees, watching the wind tilt the long grass just outside the window.
It is not your job to be useful here.
It is not your job to understand what this place means.
You are just here. The tea is warm. The rocking chair creaks gently. You exhale.
And it is enough.
No one lives there full-time. But someone has been keeping it up: sweeping the porch, airing out the sheets, laying kindling in the stove. There’s a chipped mug on the windowsill, and a faded quilt folded over the back of a rocking chair. A little wooden sign on the wall says, “You made it.”
No one asks you why you’re here.
No one asks you what comes next.
You put your bag down. You boil water for tea. You sit in the rocking chair with a heavy blanket over your knees, watching the wind tilt the long grass just outside the window.
It is not your job to be useful here.
It is not your job to understand what this place means.
You are just here. The tea is warm. The rocking chair creaks gently. You exhale.
And it is enough.
