The padlock was cold and wet, but it opened easily.

I drove up the final gravel incline and parked in front of the cabin.

The logs looked dark and rich from the rain, and the stone chimney stood tall against the gray sky.

I grabbed my bag and the manila envelope from the seat and walked up the porch steps.

The smell of wet earth and pine needles was thick in the air.

I unlocked the heavy oak door and stepped inside.

The cabin was cold, but it smelled of cedar and home.

I walked to the hearth and set the envelope on the wooden mantel.

Then I knelt down and began to build a fire in the stone fireplace.

I crumpled up old newspapers, laid down several pieces of dry kindling, and struck a match.

The flame caught, spreading warmth and light across the log walls.

I stood up and looked around the quiet living room.

There were no more lawyers, no more threats, and no more family meetings.

I walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle to make tea.