No footsteps lead to the door. No smoke curls from the chimney. And yet—a single light burns against the deep hush of snow and birch. This is my summer cabin, asleep under a roof of stars and silence, nestled in the woods above Clearwater Lake.

Normally, it rests empty through winter. But tonight, the glow feels like a heartbeat. Like someone might still be there, reading by lantern light or stoking a fire just out of sight. Maybe it’s just the wind playing tricks. Or maybe the cabin remembers what it means to be lived in.

Even in the coldest months, something warm lingers here—tucked beneath icicles and snowdrifts. A pulse in the timber. A memory in the walls.