By nightfall, the storm had teeth.
The wind didn’t just blow—it howled, forcing itself through every crack and gap in the half-finished cabin like it was looking for a way inside. Snow came sideways in thick, relentless sheets. The world beyond the timber walls vanished into white noise.
Jacob and Clara stopped pretending they could outwork it.
They pulled the canvas tarp tighter over the roof frame, tied it down with rope and stubborn knots, then retreated into the cabin’s unfinished belly like two animals taking shelter under the same rock.
There was no door yet—only a framed opening that stared out into the storm like a missing tooth. No windows sealed, only gaps stuffed with rags and scraps where Clara had tried to keep the wind from coming through.
And yes—only one blanket.
Clara didn’t mention it again. She didn’t make a fuss. She just laid it out by the fire pit, the meager flames throwing orange light across raw plank and rough-hewn log.
Jacob crouched and fed the fire until it held.
Then they sat.
Not touching.
