Updated Mar 21, 2026 • ~8 min read
The cabin is not what Iris expected.
She expected rustic. Maybe run-down. Definitely in need of work.
Instead, it’s charming.
Log construction. Wide porch. Mountain views that would photograph beautifully.
If she had phone service. Which she doesn’t.
Beck’s truck stops in the driveway. He gets out, walks to her window.
Still not smiling. Still intimidating.
“Generator’s inside. Left switch turns it on. Right controls the water heater. Firewood’s stacked on the south side. More in the shed if you need it.”
“I—okay. Thank you.”
“Roads’ll be bad tonight. Don’t drive. Stay put.”
“I wasn’t planning to go anywhere.”
He nods. Turns to leave.
“Wait,” Iris calls. “Do you have a phone number? In case I need help?”
“No cell service up here.”
“Landline?”
“Don’t have one.”
“So if I have an emergency—”
“You won’t.”
He’s back in his truck before she can argue.
Drives away into the rain.
Leaving her alone.
At a cabin she doesn’t know how to operate.
In a storm that’s getting worse.
“This is fine,” she tells herself. “Totally fine.”
The cabin interior is better than the exterior.
Clean. Well-maintained. Furniture that’s old but cared for.
Someone’s been keeping it up.
Beck, probably. That’s why he knew about the generator.
Iris finds the switch he mentioned. Flips it.
The generator rumbles to life.
Lights flicker on.
Small victory.
The cabin is one large room. Kitchen area. Living space. Loft bedroom accessible by ladder.
Cozy. That’s the word lifestyle bloggers would use.
Iris would use “tiny.”
She explores carefully.
The kitchen is stocked. Canned goods. Dried pasta. Like someone expected her.
Margaret’s doing? Or Beck’s?
The living area has a woodstove. Instructions taped to the wall.
Build fire here. Keep damper open. Don’t burn pine. —M
Margaret’s handwriting.
Iris touches the note gently.
This is real. Margaret lived here. Loved here.
And never got to reconcile with the niece who ignored her calls.
Guilt crashes over her again.
The rain hammers the roof.
Wind rattles the windows.
The cozy cabin suddenly feels very small.
Very isolated.
Very far from Seattle.
Iris pulls out her laptop.
No wifi. Obviously.
Her hotspot won’t work without cell service.
She’s completely cut off.
When’s the last time she went an hour without checking her phone?
She can’t remember.
The silence is oppressive.
No traffic sounds. No neighbor noise. No city hum.
Just rain and wind and her own breathing.
It’s terrifying.
And maybe… a little peaceful?
No.
Definitely just terrifying.
She tries to start a fire.
The instructions seem simple enough.
But the wood won’t catch.
She tries three times. Wastes half a box of matches.
Smoke fills the cabin.
She forgot to open the damper.
By the time she figures it out, she’s coughing and crying and ready to give up.
The fire finally catches.
Small. Pathetic. But burning.
She sits back. Proud and exhausted.
Her phone buzzes.
Wait—signal?
She grabs it. One bar. Miraculous.
Text from Skye: You alive?
Barely. Stuck in a ditch. Rescued by grumpy mountain man. Now trapped in cabin in storm. Living my best life.
That’s very on-brand for you. Photogenic disaster.
No photos. No service.
You must be dying.
Actually, yes.
Without content creation, what is she even doing?
The fire pops. Sends sparks up the chimney.
Iris watches it burn.
Maybe just existing is enough for one night.
The thought is strange. Uncomfortable.
But also… kind of nice?
Dinner is canned soup heated on the ancient stove.
Not Instagram-worthy. But warm. Filling.
She eats sitting by the fire.
No TV. No music. No distractions.
Just her thoughts.
Dangerous.
She thinks about Margaret. About the years of estrangement.
About the birthday cards that stopped coming when Iris was twelve.
Why did they stop?
Iris’s mother—Margaret’s sister—never explained. Just said, “We don’t talk to Aunt Margaret anymore.”
No reason. No closure.
Just silence.
And Iris, being twelve, accepted it.
By the time she was old enough to question, the estrangement felt permanent.
Too awkward to bridge.
Now Margaret’s gone.
And Iris will never know what happened.
Will never apologize for the ignored calls.
Will never say thank you for the inheritance.
Will never understand why her aunt left everything to a niece who barely remembered her.
The guilt is overwhelming.
She’s exhausted but can’t sleep.
The loft bedroom is comfortable. The bed is made with quilts that smell like lavender.
But every sound is amplified.
Rain on the roof. Wind through trees. Something scratching outside.
What was that?
A bear?
Do bears scratch?
Iris pulls the quilt over her head.
This was a terrible idea.
She should have sold remotely. Never come here.
But some part of her needed to see this place.
Needed to understand what Margaret loved about it.
Needed to say goodbye, even if it’s too late.
Morning comes eventually.
Gray. Cold. Still raining.
Iris wakes stiff and unrested.
Her phone is dead. She forgot to charge it.
And the cabin doesn’t have outlets in convenient places.
She finds one in the kitchen. Plugs in her phone.
Still no service.
The isolation is starting to feel real.
She’s been here less than twenty-four hours and already feels cut off from the world.
How did Margaret live like this?
Alone. No internet. No connection.
By choice.
It seems impossible.
She makes coffee.
The cabin has a French press and good beans.
Small miracle.
The coffee is better than anything in Seattle.
Mountain water, maybe?
She sits on the porch. Watches rain fall on endless trees.
It’s beautiful in an overwhelming way.
So much nature. So much space.
So different from her tiny Seattle apartment where she can hear neighbors through the walls.
Here, the only sounds are natural.
Rain. Birds. Wind.
No sirens. No traffic. No people.
It’s peaceful.
Iris waits to feel bored.
Feels peaceful instead.
Weird.
She’s trying to figure out the water heater when she hears an engine.
Beck’s truck.
He parks and gets out. Carrying something.
Knocks on the door.
Iris opens it.
“Thought you might need firewood. Storm’s not letting up.”
He’s brought a full cord. Stacks it on the porch without asking if she wants help.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to—”
“Margaret was a friend. I look after her place.”
Was.
Past tense.
“You knew her well?”
“Well enough.”
That’s all he offers.
He finishes stacking wood. Checks the generator. Adjusts something Iris can’t see.
“You good on food?”
“I think so. The kitchen was stocked.”
“That was me. Figured city girl wouldn’t bring supplies.”
He’s not wrong.
Iris would have starved without his preparation.
“Thank you. Really. For everything.”
Beck shrugs.
“Roads should clear in a day or two. You’ll be able to leave then.”
“Can’t happen soon enough.”
Something flickers in his expression. Disapproval? Disappointment?
It’s gone before Iris can identify it.
“Montana’s not for everyone.”
“I’m more of a latte-and-wifi person.”
“Clearly.”
Is that judgment?
Definitely judgment.
“Not everyone wants to live in the middle of nowhere,” Iris says defensively.
“Not everyone can handle it.”
“I can handle it. I just don’t want to.”
“Sure.”
He’s leaving again.
This man is the worst at conversation.
“Wait—do you want coffee? I made extra.”
He stops. Considers.
“No.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But thanks.”
He drives away.
And Iris stands on the porch.
Watching rain fall.
Drinking coffee alone.
Wondering why the grumpy mountain man’s rejection stings.
The rest of the day passes slowly.
Iris explores the cabin more thoroughly.
Finds Margaret’s books. Journals. Photos.
A life documented in objects.
Margaret was a photographer. Nature shots. Wildlife. Mountains.
Talented. Really talented.
Iris had no idea.
In the photos, Margaret looks happy. Free.
Nothing like the stern woman Iris vaguely remembers from childhood.
What happened?
Why did she leave Seattle? Come here alone?
The journals might have answers.
But reading them feels invasive.
Margaret’s dead. She can’t consent.
But she also left everything to Iris.
Including her privacy?
Iris opens the first journal carefully.
March 15th – Arrived at the cabin today. Finally. After years of city noise and family drama, I’m home. This is where I belong. I can feel it.
Family drama?
What family drama?
Iris keeps reading.
Susan (my sister) doesn’t understand why I’d leave. Says I’m running away. Maybe I am. But running toward something feels different than running away. I’m running toward peace. Toward myself. Toward the life I actually want instead of the one expected of me.
Susan. Iris’s mother.
So the estrangement was between the sisters.
Not Iris’s fault.
Relief mixes with sadness.
She keeps reading.
Late into the rainy afternoon.
Learning about an aunt she never really knew.
Understanding what this cabin meant.
Why she might have left it to Iris.
And wondering—just for a moment—if selling it immediately is the right choice.
Outside, the rain continues.
The mountains wait.
And somewhere in the trees, Beck chops wood.
Thinking about the city girl who doesn’t belong here.
Who probably won’t last the weekend.
Who looks nothing like what he expected.
And everything like trouble.
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