I settle into a temporary rhythm outside the packhouse.
Not exile. Not avoidance. Something in between.
Neutral territory.
A rented cabin just far enough from the main grounds that no one stumbles into me by accident, close enough that I can reach the perimeter in minutes if I need to. The kind of place meant for short stays and long thoughts. One bedroom. One table. A narrow porch that creaks when I pace.
Fewer eyes.
More thinking space.
My mornings are quiet. Too quiet at first. I wake before dawn out of habit, shower while the water’s still cold enough to bite, brush my teeth while staring at a face that looks steadier than it did a week ago. I make coffee I don’t really want and drink it anyway because routine still matters. Then I sit at the table with my notebook open and don’t
