The house pulls back from the road just enough. Set among trees that have been here longer than the structure, it feels like part of the hillside. The logs aren’t for show. They hold weight, both physical and otherwise.

Inside, the rooms unfold with purpose. The kitchen stretches wide, open enough for movement, close enough to keep conversations in the room. Light comes in from above and moves through the beams. The ceilings rise in places and fall in others, keeping a rhythm. Fireplaces mark the center of the home, each one set exactly where it needs to be.

The primary suite offers privacy without needing to be hidden. It’s quiet there, with just enough view to remind you where you are. The rest of the bedrooms are simple, consistent, ready. One shifts easily into an office, studio, or guest space. Nothing about it feels staged.

There’s a sauna, placed like someone who lived here knew the value of a reset. Wood floors carry through the house, framed by natural trim and windows that show more trees than sky.

The land outside does what it wants. Steep in parts, open in others. Not every path is paved, but they’re there if you look. The garage sits close, detached but part of the whole. Water comes from the ground, not a line. There’s no HOA. No one watching. No one needing permission.

Built decades ago, but not behind. Everything is in place and still working. It doesn’t ask for attention, it just holds it.

This isn’t a new chapter. It’s the middle of a good one.