The rain poured down in thick, merciless sheets as Ivy climbed the muddy trail, cursing her editor with every step. Her boots were soaked, her jacket clung to her skin, and her camera bag slapped against her hip like a punishment. She wasn’t made for this. She was a city girl, used to pavement, noise, and caffeine—not remote logging camps on a freezing mountain range.
But apparently, “rustic Americana in real time” was the next big photo trend, and if she wanted the feature spot in Wanderlust Magazine, she had to deliver.
She reached the edge of the clearing, panting, and squinted through the storm.
A cabin stood alone beneath towering pine trees. Not a shack. Not a tent. A real, solid, two-story cabin with smoke curling from the chimney and warm golden light glowing behind the windows.
