Murder Cabin In the Woods

It looked like the start of a horror film—
shuttered windows,
timbers leaning into shadow,
a silence thick enough
to make the trees hold their breath.
We laughed and called it the murder cabin,
half afraid, half delighted,
as though naming it could keep
the darkness at bay.

But inside—
the fire cracked with kindness,
steam rose from mugs cradled in our hands,
and the night wrapped itself around us
like an old quilt.
The fear faded into something softer:
the stillness of pine,
the hush of snow drifting past glass,
the sense of being held apart
from the world’s relentless noise.

It was here,
in this unlikely sanctuary,
that I felt the reset hum through my bones.
The kind of quiet that empties you
only to fill you again.
The kind of laughter that roots you deeper
into the soil of your own life.

And My Love—
how we found each other again
in the glow of lantern light,
in the press of your hand over mine,
in the sweet reminder
that even in the most haunted of places,
we are safe when we are together.

The cabin may have looked like a place
where stories end,
but for us, it was a beginning—
a retreat,
a renewal,
a reminder that sometimes
the scariest-looking shelters
hold the most beautiful kind of peace.

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