It was a run-down shack, one built seemingly for nobody.
The shack overlooked the lake, but was tucked away so far that only those who knew it existed could hope to spot it.
In the distance, past the horizon, you could almost make out the towering skyscrapers of the nearby city, so close and so far away.
Sounds from the city never quite reached this far out, so all you could hear were the chirping of insects and water.
Sure, the shack may have gotten hot during the summer, or ice-bitingly cold in the winter,
But it was homely.
It had all the essentials for a peaceful life: A small, electric heater, barely able to stave away the cold unless you were inches from its base, a little rickety chair, a handheld solar radio, and a little window.
I like coming down here sometimes, just to escape the city.
Takes forever getting there, and it’s a long quiet road.
One of those roads that most have forgotten about, the dirty, dusty kind more commonly seen out by the countryside.
But it’s home.
Of course, life always calls you back, no matter how hard you try to cut it off.
Jobs, food, all that.
But this little shack seems to exist outside of all of it.
Of time itself.
Just me, the music of the radio, and the solid wood base.

It’s home.