The cabin was a single, square room with three windows to a side. The bathroom was in one corner so that the rear and left walls seemed to have only two windows apiece, but the bathroom had two also and was filled with light in the mornings. And the front wall had the door, heavy and wooden, and it replaced the center window, so that really, the only wall that truly had three windows faced North and this was one thing that they wished otherwise, because on cold days the cold crept in under the sashes, and on the coldest nights, wool blankets were hung over the glass to keep the chill at bay. The whole place was filled with light most of the time, since it was positioned well and the sun came in the rear windows all morning, then swept around towards the front so that orange rays hit the front porch until dark set in. The porch was a simple one—two short steps up onto wide, pine boards. There was no railing, as it was quite low, so the steps were irrelevant in the summer and fall, but in winter, when the girls moved in, the snow was drifted against the edge of the porch so that it appeared to be much larger than it was. Only where they dug out the steps did the plane of brown boards break, transitioning smoothly into snow, then on towards the woods at the edge of field. New visitors often mis-stepped and ended up in the drift, snow up to their thigh. It was so easy to think that the porch was endless, especially when a new snow came and the boards were dusted white with the windswept flakes and the gray morning light made it difficult to distinguish where wood ended and world began.
I’ve already started to flesh this out into a short story, but it might be awhile before I can finish. I’ll try to post some more pieces of it as we roll along.