Cinnamon Cabin
The scent of cinnamon grew stronger as Arka pushed through the last dense thicket. In the middle of a broad clearing stood a raised building with a wooden-shingle roof blackened by age. Its sturdy plank walls were adorned with the grain of old wood, blending perfectly with the pine trees surrounding it. From the stone chimney at one corner of the roof, a thin wisp of steam rose slowly, carrying the soothing scent of burning dry wood. Cinnamon Cabin.
Arka hurried across the moss-covered yard, then climbed the three wooden steps without making so much as a creak. The thick teak door before him stood slightly ajar, spilling the yellow glow of an oil lamp from inside.
Knock. Knock.
Arka tapped the doorframe with his knuckles. A middle-aged woman with sharp yet gentle eyes looked up from behind a long wooden table. Her nimble hands immediately stilled the fingers that had been knitting terracotta-colored wool yarn. “Arka?” she asked directly. Arka nodded quickly. “That’s right, ma’am. I—” “Mr. Danu radioed ten minutes ago,” the woman interrupted as she rose from her seat. With one deft motion, she tidied the coil of yarn. “I’m Martha. I’m in charge of this area. Welcome to your resting place for the next thirty days.” Ms. Martha took an ornate iron key from a hook on the wall and tossed it gently to Arka, who caught it deftly. A piece of dried cinnamon wood hung from the key as a pendant. “Room number three at the end of the hall on the left. All the basic facilities are ready. If you need more hot water, get it from the large clay pot in the back kitchen,” Ms. Martha instructed firmly. “Get some rest. Velvetide air has a unique way of wiping away the last traces of a city dweller’s exhaustion.” Arka gave a brief nod, turned, and strode down the hall with its smooth wooden floor.
As soon as he pushed open the door to room number three, the fragrant scent of pine and clean cotton sheets filled his senses. The room was simple but highly functional. A medium-sized wooden bed stood right beside a wide glass window that looked directly into the dense forest. In another corner stood a dark wood writing desk, complete with a chair woven from wool cord. Arka slipped off his olive canvas backpack, set it beside the desk, and immediately stretched out on the mattress.
The soft warmth instantly absorbed the ache from every joint in his body. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees outside, casting a golden glow across the broad expanse of the forest floor’s moss. There were no ear-splitting horns, no ringing cell phones, and no more financial-report deadlines pressing after him. The silence here felt so dense and powerful.
With a quick movement, Arka got up, took his grandfather’s old brown leather notebook from the backpack compartment, and opened it on the writing desk. His fingers traced the black-ink lines on the hand-drawn map sketched by hand decades ago. In the lower corner of the yellowing tracing paper, a series of slanted lines caught his attention: “On this land, time does not move forward. It settles instead. Let yourself sink into it.” Arka drew a long breath, taking in every word. He quickly moved again, pulling off his boots, arranging his belongings on the wooden shelf, then throwing himself back onto the bed. Within seconds, the warmth of the Velvetide season enveloped his consciousness, carrying him away into a deep sleep unlike anything he had experienced in months in the city.