Day forty-eight, continuous drizzling rain.

The rain had not stopped all night; instead, it seemed to be growing even heavier. My mood was as dreary as the weather. On rainy days, there are so many things I can't do, and I worry about the little wild boars and the potato seedlings.

The wind now was much less than it had been last night. The winds then were truly terrifying; my heart was in my throat the entire night as my treehouse swayed back and forth with the shaking tree, the wind seeping through the cracks of the house. Though I had bedding to keep me from the cold, the swaying and the howling of the storm made me extremely anxious. I was so afraid the treehouse would collapse under the force of the wind, or that the vines securing it would snap from the shaking.

If the treehouse fell... what would become of me?

My hands were clenched tightly the entire night, palms slick with sweat. Yet, the treehouse survived. The rain continued to intensify, but compared to last night, the wind was nothing now, and the tension in my chest finally eased.

I leaned out to check several times. The fishing net protecting the vegetable patch had only one corner lifted by the wind—it hadn’t blown away. The two little wild boars were nowhere to be seen, so they must still be hiding in their shelter.

I didn’t brave the downpour to check on them; just a glance sufficed. I was grateful I’d prepared so much dry firewood, stacked on the lower level—enough to last me several days.

Sitting by the fire, eating fruit, I grew increasingly bored. Rainy days like this, there’s nothing to do but sleep or idle away the hours. I envied Little Black—this fellow could sleep all day in this weather, curled up comfortably in his travel case, at ease.

But I couldn’t do the same. Too much sleep gives me a headache, and once awake, I find it hard to drift off again; lying in bed only fuels my wandering thoughts.

Sighing, I poked at the fire, listlessly.

But then, inspiration struck. There was something I could do to fill the hours.

I decided to make some furniture. Under the eaves were several wooden planks I’d salvaged from the ship, including a whole door I’d removed intact. I planned to use it to make a dining table or perhaps a cooking counter, as crouching on the ground to prepare food was exhausting.

Yet my skills were poor; I had no real concept of carpentry. If only I had nails—it would be so much easier to just hammer everything together. But I didn’t, so I had to improvise.

After pondering for some time without finding a better method, I resolved to rely on what little I recalled from memory and began.

I laid the door flat on the ground. At each corner, I drew a circle with a charred stick. Using my Swiss Army knife and the fireman’s axe, I began to make holes. This sort of plywood door was slippery, so eventually I switched to the corkscrew from my knife—perfect for the job.

I pressed the sharp tip of the corkscrew into the board and struck it hard with the axe. With a crisp sound, the first hole was made—not pretty, but functional. That was enough for me. In this place, perfection was meaningless.

Once I’d worked out the method, the other three holes were quickly done. But the prep work was far from over—it had just begun. The holes, due to the plywood, were uneven and rough, so I used my knife to clean them up, twisting, cutting, and prying away splinters and fragments until they were as smooth as I could manage.

Next was attaching the four legs, made from materials I’d split from the cabin’s cabinets. I chopped them to equal length with the axe; their thickness varied, but that didn’t matter. The challenge was fixing them in place.

The first leg I tried to fit into a hole was too loose, but I wasn’t worried. I found a small piece of wood to wedge it in, but it was too thick to fit. So I angled the axe and split the piece, shaping it into a trapezoid—narrow at the top, wider below.

I wedged the narrow end between the leg and the hole, then hammered it in with the back of the axe. The pressure fixed the leg firmly in place. I shook it hard, but it didn’t budge.

Soon, the table was finished. When I set it upright, it showed hardly a flaw. I ran my hands over it for a long time, thrilled—I finally had a dining table. With this experience, I even made myself a long bench.

Busy like this, the hours passed swiftly. Only when I finished did I realize I hadn’t heard the pounding rain for some time. I opened the door and looked outside—the rain had eased, the dark clouds above began to scatter. I thought perhaps tomorrow would be clear.

If there’s no rain tomorrow, I’ll take Little Black and explore the surrounding areas I haven’t visited yet, to see if I can find new food, useful materials, or perhaps dangers I should be wary of.

Last time, my carelessness nearly cost me my life. That lesson didn’t just teach me about the dangers here; it heightened my sense of crisis. Danger lurks everywhere—snakes, poisonous insects and fruits, wild boars. These are just the threats I’ve already faced; what I haven’t encountered isn’t necessarily safe.

So, my exploration is a necessity!

But at just such a moment, this weather had appeared, thwarting my plans and making me restless.

Another reason I dislike such gloomy days is that it’s impossible to tell the time—I can only judge by my hunger. Yes, I’m hungry now, but I have no idea whether it’s afternoon or evening.

While making the table and bench, I’d been so absorbed that I lost track of everything else.

It was time to eat. I wasn’t in the mood to cook anything fancy today.

For Little Black, I made turtle egg fried rice. Turtle eggs are small—I cracked twelve into a bowl and beat them briskly with chopsticks. I stir-fried the rice until fragrant, then poured in the eggs, stirring quickly for a minute before salting and serving.

As always, Little Black appeared just as I was plating up, his timing impeccable—I truly admired his nose.

I have to say, this batch of fried rice was especially delicious. Turtle eggs don’t set easily, but in fried rice, that’s a virtue—the result was moist and not dry at all. Each bite was silky, fresh, and richly eggy. The essence of fried rice is that it should be fragrant but not dry, and this dish achieved just that.

Once the meal was finished, the rain had stopped. Tomorrow, it would finally be time to set out.