They thought it mattered to him that it wasn’t fancy. That he’d care it was damp. Or old. Or cobbled together from what materials could be found.
They were wrong.
All he ever wanted was a roof that did not leak, a hearth that could be lit, food enough to fill his belly, safety in his sleep, a bed that did not bite, walls that did not threaten to collapse about his ears.
The cabin was all that.
Sure, it had housed horses, and smelled of them, sometimes.
It only made it more a home.
A stable home.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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