Caleb woke to the chill of early dawn creeping into the cabin. The fire had died down during the night, leaving a cold dampness in the air. He sat up, muscles aching from the previous day's labor. Despite the soreness, he felt a small measure of pride. The shelter was far from perfect, but it was standing—a testament to his survival so far.
After a quick breakfast of dried berries and leftover strips of meat from his last hunt, he took stock of what he had left. The structure needed more work—walls still needed reinforcement, and there were gaps where the wind snuck in. He could feel winter pressing down on him. He'd need a reliable source of heat soon, or this cabin would be nothing more than a glorified windbreak.
"One thing at a time," he muttered to himself, finishing his meal and setting to work.
The Cabin Reinforcements
Today's plan was simple: shore up the walls. He'd noticed a few of them bowing slightly under the weight of the roof, and if he didn't do something about it, the entire thing could collapse in the next heavy rain. He started with the logs he had stacked outside, selecting the sturdiest ones to reinforce the corners.
Caleb worked with slow precision, setting logs into place and using his paracord to bind them together in a lattice that would distribute the weight more evenly. His mind buzzed with ideas, drawing from his modern knowledge like an engineer of old—but here, without power tools, every small adjustment took time and immense physical effort.
"Back in 2024, I could've done this in a day with a chainsaw and some screws," he grumbled, tightening the paracord until his hands ached. "But here, it's just me and these primitive tools."
Using his axe, he cut notches into the new logs, allowing them to fit together more securely. This was no small feat—each strike sent a dull pain up his arm, reminding him that his body hadn't fully recovered from the last bout of building. Once the supports were in place, he began the tedious process of insulating the gaps with a mix of mud and moss, plastering it carefully between the logs to create a natural barrier against the wind.
His movements were methodical, his mind drifting to the science behind his actions. The mixture of mud and moss, though crude, would act much like mortar in modern buildings, sealing gaps and improving the structure's resistance to cold. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.
He let his thoughts wander back to the past—to school projects where he'd learned about ancient construction techniques. The Romans had used lime and volcanic ash to create concrete, and here he was, using dirt and plants. It felt ironic, yet satisfying, to apply that knowledge in the most real way possible.
Hours passed. By the time the sun was high overhead, Caleb's hands were caked with dried mud, his arms trembling from exertion. He stood back and admired his work. The new supports had given the cabin a sturdier feel, the walls now packed tight with insulation.
The wind picked up briefly, rattling the trees around him, but this time, the cabin stood firm. Caleb smiled—a small victory, but one that made him feel just a little more secure.
The Injury
His triumph was short-lived. While working to patch one final section of the wall, he misjudged the angle of his axe. The blade glanced off the log, veering into his hand. A sharp pain shot through his palm, and he dropped the axe, cursing under his breath. Blood welled up from the gash, dripping onto the ground.
"Damn it!"
He wrapped his hand quickly in a strip of cloth, tightening it to slow the bleeding. It wasn't deep, but it stung like hell. Worse than the pain was the frustration—every minute lost was one less minute of progress, and the thought of being slowed down gnawed at him. Still, he knew better than to ignore an injury out here. Infection was a death sentence in this world.
Caleb walked back to the shelter, his hand throbbing with each step. Inside, he sat by the now-smoldering fire and carefully cleaned the wound with some water from his canteen. He cursed again, the sting of the cold water making his fingers twitch. After bandaging it up as best as he could, he leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
The cabin felt more like a prison now—walls closing in, trapping him with his thoughts.
The Weather Turns
As if sensing his defeat, the sky outside darkened. The first few drops of rain tapped against the roof, followed by a steady downpour. Caleb could hear the wind howling, trying to force its way inside, but the new reinforcements held. He sat for a moment, watching the fire dance in the hearth, feeling a flicker of satisfaction.
But satisfaction couldn't stave off the cold forever. He stood up, grabbed his axe with his good hand, and resumed his work. He still had a long way to go before he could rest.
The Fireplace Dilemma
As he worked, a new challenge emerged. The fire pit he'd been using was too crude. If he didn't create a proper fireplace, the cabin would fill with smoke—something he couldn't afford in the middle of winter. He started brainstorming, thinking of ways to create a chimney system that would vent the smoke outside without letting in the rain.
His mind flashed to early industrial designs—primitive stone chimneys, angled openings to prevent backdraft. If he could find some more rocks, maybe he could start building a draft that would pull the smoke upward. But the stones around the area were large and unwieldy, and his strength was already fading from the day's efforts.
"Tomorrow," he muttered. "Tomorrow, I'll figure it out."
The Mysterious Object
Before heading back inside for the night, Caleb walked the perimeter of his camp to check for any weak spots. The rain had tapered off into a light drizzle, and the forest around him seemed unnervingly quiet. As he passed the same area where he'd found the odd stone before, he stopped dead in his tracks.
There it was again—a small stone, perfectly smooth, sitting in the exact same spot as before.
He stared at it, feeling a chill creep up his spine. Who—or what—kept leaving it there?
Caleb stood frozen, staring at the smooth stone resting in its usual spot. His thoughts raced, trying to piece together a logical explanation. It couldn't be the wind; the stone was too perfectly placed. An animal? But why? His mind struggled to make sense of it, but exhaustion and the lingering ache from his hand dulled his thoughts. He forced himself to move, kicking the stone aside and continuing his perimeter check, though now his eyes darted suspiciously into the trees.
With the camp secure and his shelter reinforced, Caleb headed back inside. The fire had died down again, leaving just the soft glow of embers in the hearth. He tossed in a few smaller pieces of wood, careful to let them catch slowly, mindful not to waste precious fuel. The crackle of the fire seemed comforting in the otherwise oppressive silence of the forest.
The day had worn him out. His hands were caked in dried blood and dirt, his muscles sore and stiff from the constant strain. But the cabin was holding up, and that was something. The wind no longer whistled through the walls, and the roof didn't creak ominously above him. Still, the sight of that stone lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at the edges of his rational mind.
Caleb slumped into the pile of blankets he'd scavenged together. His bed was nothing more than a crude layering of furs and tattered fabric, but it was warm, and right now, that was enough. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, watching the flickering shadows cast by the firelight. His hand throbbed beneath the bandage, but he ignored it.
The Routine
Despite his fatigue, he couldn't let go of his nightly routine. In this place, routines meant survival. He pulled his pack over and rummaged through it, checking his dwindling supply of food. A few strips of dried meat, some berries, and a handful of roots he'd dug up earlier that week. Enough for a couple more days, but soon he'd need to go hunting or foraging again. The mere thought of venturing deeper into the woods unsettled him now, especially with the strange occurrences that kept happening around camp.
His canteen was half-empty, but the rain would give him more water soon. As he lay there, he mentally ticked through a list: firewood—enough for tonight but not tomorrow; shelter—reinforced, but still needed better insulation; food—running low.
He closed his eyes, trying to push the worries away. His mind desperately needed rest, but no matter how tired he felt, sleep wouldn't come. The strange happenings in the forest, the isolation, the nagging thought that something—someone—was out there, watching, crept back in.
A Fracturing Mind
The weight of everything began to press down on him. For weeks, he had kept himself going, focusing on survival—on the next task, the next meal, the next fire. But now, alone in the quiet of the night, with the storm outside and the stone that shouldn't be there, the walls started closing in. The silence wasn't comforting; it was suffocating.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but it seemed distant, like a memory of warmth rather than the real thing. His breath came in shallow bursts as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to slow his thoughts. But they raced on, spiraling deeper into the darkness.
"What the hell am I doing here?"
The question, the one he'd been avoiding for weeks, burst to the surface.
Why was he fighting so hard to survive in a world that seemed determined to break him? What was the point of all this—building walls, gathering food, patching wounds—if there was no one else left? The settlers, the Shawnee, all of them fading away into the background now, leaving him here, alone, with the growing weight of his own thoughts.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Images of the past—of his life before all this—flooded back. The warmth of a real bed. The hum of electricity. Friends. Family. All of it felt so far away now, like it belonged to another lifetime.
The isolation was starting to crack him, and he could feel it. Each day was harder to push through. Every step forward seemed pointless.
Caleb's heart pounded in his chest as the wave of hopelessness crashed over him. His breaths became more erratic, and he clenched his fists tightly, trying to focus, trying to ground himself. But his hand throbbed with pain, and the overwhelming sense of dread only grew.
He sat up suddenly, gasping for air as if the walls were closing in on him. His mind raced, his body tense, shaking from more than just exhaustion. The stone... the endless silence… the feeling of being watched… It was all too much.
"What if it's not enough?" he whispered to himself, staring into the dimming fire. "What if... nothing is enough?"
Tears burned at the edges of his eyes, but he swallowed them down. Crying wouldn't help, and he knew it. He'd always known it. He'd have to pull through, just like every other day, no matter how much his mind screamed at him to stop.
After several minutes, Caleb forced himself to lie back down, his body trembling. He tried to breathe slowly, listening to the sounds of the rain on the roof, focusing on the small warmth still left from the fire.
He couldn't let the doubt win. Not tonight.
But as he lay there, staring up into the darkness, he couldn't help but feel that something had already shifted inside him. Something fragile had cracked, and no amount of cabin walls or reinforcements could fix it.
The night dragged on, the stone outside remaining in his thoughts like an unsolvable puzzle.
Tomorrow, he would continue working. He had to.