You stand on the porch of a large cabin, its wooden exterior blending into the surrounding pine trees. The air is crisp and cool, the scent of pine needles and the crackling of a fireplace drifting out.

Your grandfather stands in the open doorway, his tall, stout frame filling the entryway. His chest is bare, sprinkled with wiry gray hairs, and a half-knit shirt hangs on his shoulders. The top buttons are undone, revealing a muscular chest and arms, covered in a dusting of ash and dirt.

He is holding an axe in his right hand, the handle gripped firmly in his large calloused palm. The blade gleams in the sunlight, and you can't help but feel a shiver run down your spine as you take in the scene.

Your mother steps forward, greeting him in a tired voice. Your grandfather's eyes narrow as he takes in her appearance, his mouth set in a tight line. He moves aside to allow you to enter the cabin.