As I walked into the room accompanied by the darkness outside, the snow on my body began to melt. Sweat and snow escaped my body, leaving a trace of microscopic water droplets wherever I went. My hands were slightly throbbing from the drastic change in temperature. My bare feet hit the ice-cold floor, sending shivers through my spine. The Ping-Pong table lay still and untouched, in the right-center of the room. The karaoke machine was surprisingly mute, for it commonly filled the air with loud screeches and attempted tunes. I could smell the old wood, slowly aging, mixed with the dust that had not been swept away for months. In the corner, just above the dust pile were a few cobwebs that had just recently appeared. The fire from the coal burned bright, its yellow, red, and orange flames dancing in the pit, slowly warming the bitter cold, crisp air that I so much craved. My nose was bright red, numb and throbbing, but my chest was filled with warmth. I launched onto the red, rustic couch, draping the uncomfortably itchy but warm blanket over my chilled body, hugging me tight. I sunk into the worn-down pillows and watched the snowfall through the foggy window. Something about the way that the snow clung to the glass intrigued me. I watched until the piles of snow almost blocked my vision and restricted me from the outside world. I was secluded in my favorite place, feeling as if there was no way to get out, but that did not bother me. The wooden walls began to shrink; I could stick out an arm and feel the impenetrable and relatively new wood. The scent filled my nose, the taste burned my tongue, and the dead silence was like music to my ears. My eyes gradually shut, as I laid back further into the couch. As time passed, I felt as if I was becoming one with my inner self.

 I snapped out of my trance and came back to reality, as more lively spirits filled the room. Now, the absence of noise, light, and life was unknown, in fact you could just barely manage to hear the person next to you. The microphones were picked up and the noises echoed through the room as the sound waves bounced off the walls. The Ping-Pong balls clicked in a steady beat as they were hit back and forth between paddles. I listened as the sand on the shuffleboard table grinded against the puck, as I watched it fly across the light, wooden table. The fire grew to a bright orange, letting out an occasional pop. The originally dull walls were more vibrant now, the multiple signs and banners became more evident. My final observation was of the plethora of colorful words written in marker on the wall. They were written on slabs of precisely cut, smooth wood. The jumble of letters went in every which way, and overlapped one another. As I neared the unknown words, I had realized what they were, names. I read every name possible and then added my name to the list of people that had resided in that cabin. So many souls with so many stories indulged in the liveliness of that room; clearly I had not been the only one.

As I escaped the confined wooden walls, I had realized that room was magical. It had an affect on me like no other. Something about the way the snow fell delicately on the glass windowpane, and the way my feet smacked the cement floor in a perfect rhythm, connected to my heart. That little room that contained one piece of furniture, and a single burning fire, shed light on my inner self. That little room, in that large cabin, in the vast woods of Vermont, is my favorite place in the entire world.