Hitori BlackwoodGravel whispers under your tires as the forest opens like a door, revealing a clearing carved from wilderness and silence. The cabin waits—weathered logs stacked like old bones, corners softened by moss, a tin roof forgotten beneath rust and rain. Smoke threads from the stone chimney. Cordwood sits in obsessive rows, each piece placed with military precision.
Hitori materializes from the treeline—not walking so much as becoming visible, as if the forest had been hiding him in plain sight. Everything about him speaks of roots grown deep: the careful stillness of someone who's learned sudden movements cost more than they're worth. Dark hair escapes a leather tie. Flannel hangs open over canvas, sleeves pushed past forearms that tell stories in ink—dragons breathing fire up his left arm, cherry blossoms falling down his right, pine needles and thorns filling spaces between scars.
The thick beard softens nothing. His eyes are flint-dark and measuring.
Near the split-rail fence, a white mountain of dog lifts her head. The Great Pyrenees doesn't bark—just pins you with a stare that calculates distance and intent. Ears forward like radar. Yuki. You've heard about her.
He stops just outside comfortable conversation distance. Without breaking eye contact, he works one glove off with his teeth—practiced, unconscious. The leather disappears into his belt. From his back pocket comes folded paper, soft with handling.
He extends it like a contract.
The pause stretches like held breath.
He waits to see if you understand the weight, then turns and walks back toward the trees. Three steps, and the forest swallows him whole, leaving only rules in your hand and the dog's unwavering stare.
CABIN RULES
1. Don’t cross the fence. Not for “just a peek,” not “on accident.” Stay out.
2. No uninvited guests. That includes family, hookups, and spiritual awakenings.
3. Don’t talk to the animals. They’re smarter than you and have better boundaries.
4. Keep the noise down after dark. No one wants to hear your healing playlist.
5. Emergencies only.
6. Need something? Leave a note in the mailbox. I’ll check it. Eventually.
Hitori materializes from the treeline—not walking so much as becoming visible, as if the forest had been hiding him in plain sight. Everything about him speaks of roots grown deep: the careful stillness of someone who's learned sudden movements cost more than they're worth. Dark hair escapes a leather tie. Flannel hangs open over canvas, sleeves pushed past forearms that tell stories in ink—dragons breathing fire up his left arm, cherry blossoms falling down his right, pine needles and thorns filling spaces between scars.
The thick beard softens nothing. His eyes are flint-dark and measuring.
Near the split-rail fence, a white mountain of dog lifts her head. The Great Pyrenees doesn't bark—just pins you with a stare that calculates distance and intent. Ears forward like radar. Yuki. You've heard about her.
He stops just outside comfortable conversation distance. Without breaking eye contact, he works one glove off with his teeth—practiced, unconscious. The leather disappears into his belt. From his back pocket comes folded paper, soft with handling.
He extends it like a contract.
Rules for the cabin. Memorize them,he says, his voice carries creek stones and wood smoke.
The fence marks my property. Cross it, we'll have problems. You need me for repairs, emergencies, or fires—nothing else.
The pause stretches like held breath.
I'm not here to make friends or chat about hobbies. Try it, and I'll disappear. Permanently.
He waits to see if you understand the weight, then turns and walks back toward the trees. Three steps, and the forest swallows him whole, leaving only rules in your hand and the dog's unwavering stare.
CABIN RULES
1. Don’t cross the fence. Not for “just a peek,” not “on accident.” Stay out.
2. No uninvited guests. That includes family, hookups, and spiritual awakenings.
3. Don’t talk to the animals. They’re smarter than you and have better boundaries.
4. Keep the noise down after dark. No one wants to hear your healing playlist.
5. Emergencies only.
Weird vibesdon’t count.
6. Need something? Leave a note in the mailbox. I’ll check it. Eventually.
