Three chairs.
One large bed beneath rough pelts.
Shelves.
A stove.
A fireplace.
Nothing soft.
No curtains.
No rug.
No color except brown, black, gray, and whatever color dust became when allowed to mature.
The Mountain Woman slowly turned.
“This is where you live?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
He removed his coat.
She stared.
The Mountain Man ignored her tone.
“Fire’s dead.”
“I noticed.”
“Wood out back.”
“I noticed that too.”
“I have traps to check before dark.”
The Mountain Woman waited.
Surely there was more.
There was not.
He picked up his rifle.
Walked toward the door.
The Mountain Woman asked:
“What exactly am I supposed to do?”
He looked back.
“Whatever needs doing.”
The door closed.
The Mountain Woman stared.
Then laughed.
Not happily.
A deep, exhausted, disbelieving laugh.
“Whatever needs doing.”
Her legs nearly gave out.
She sat in the nearest chair.
It complained beneath her weight.
That sound was familiar.
The Mountain Woman immediately stood again.
She refused to let furniture humiliate her on the first day.
Cold crept through the cabin.
Her damp clothing made it worse.
She looked toward the stove.
Then the back door.
Wood.
Fine.
The woodpile contained rounds.
Not split wood.
Rounds.
Heavy pine and oak sections stacked beneath an awning.
The Mountain Woman stared.
Beside the pile sat an axe buried in a stump.
Now she understood.
Another test.
She walked toward it.
Wrapped both hands around the handle.
Pulled.
Nothing.
The axe was buried deep.
She adjusted.
Pulled harder.
The axe came free suddenly.
She nearly fell backward.
“Wonderful.”
The handle was thick.
Heavy.
Made for hands larger than hers.
The Mountain Woman dragged a pine round onto the stump.
She had split wood before.
Not this much.
Not with an axe this heavy.
Her father taught every child because winter did not care about gender.
The Mountain Woman planted her boots.
Raised the axe.
Her shoulders protested.
She brought it down.
THWACK.
The blade bit halfway.
She breathed.
Wrenched it free.
Again.
THWACK.
The pine split.
The Mountain Woman smiled.
There.
She dragged another.
Then another.
Her scraped palms reopened.
Sweat returned.
Her arms trembled.
But something important happened.
All the weight people spent years mocking became useful.
She had mass.
Momentum.
Strength developed from carrying children, flour sacks, water buckets, laundry, garden baskets, cast iron, and herself through a world never designed comfortably for bodies like hers.
The Mountain Woman learned the rhythm.