This sat alone on a blank notecard in Paul’s typewriter. He stared at it, sipping at his too-hot coffee. This made sense to him.
He looked at the spot on the wall where he wanted a window to be, at the rough planks above his desk as they were lit by the bare hanging lightbulb. He sipped his coffee again. It was still too hot. His Woodworking Shack was becoming full of wood that was not furniture. He feared it would never become so.
He threw open the door to the snow and the ground below it. He reached for his axe on the wall. He reconsidered. He took a few tentative steps onto the blankness on his own. He wasn’t cold, not yet. He walked into the forest. The snow crunched under his feet and did not echo.