I expected the place to smell like mildew and dust. Instead, the air smelled of pinewood and old leather.

I flicked the light switch by the door and a warm glow filled the small living room. Someone had clearly been taking care of this place recently.

The wood floors were polished and the furniture was in good condition. A neat stack of firewood even sat next to the stone fireplace.

I shut the door and leaned against it. I wondered if my father had arranged for someone to keep an eye on the property before he passed.

My bag was heavy, but my attention snagged on a framed photograph on the mantle. I stepped closer to look.

It was my father, young, standing in front of this very cabin with an older woman. On the back, he’d written, “With Grandma Adelaide, 1962—the place where everything began.”