Lining

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In the neighboring village, an old workshop still smells of resin. People say that spruce gives off heat above all else, so even in the bitterest frost, the boards feel warm under your hand. When I first brought home a package of spruce paneling, it was still shaking from the journey: thin 14mm rails, three to six meters long, with edges so smooth it seemed they had been cut not by a circular saw, but by the cleanest morning.

A balcony stash. First, a few boards lie on the floor, like gray streaks of light. Then I pick one up, insert the tongue into the groove—a click—and it's already held in place. From there, it's easier: each successive board slides in with a finger, like putting together a wooden construction set without instructions. I hide the screws in the groove, leaving only a smooth board without a black spot on top. The expansion gap against the wall is two fingers wide, as my grandfather used to say, "so the wood can breathe."

Overnight, the balcony transformed into a mini-sauna: the scent of pine was so strong that the cat came in to sniff it and refused to leave. The next day, my wife put a rocking chair there and says it's her office now. And in winter, when it's -20 degrees outside, she still wants to go there.

The only thing the smereka doesn't like is being embedded in concrete. Lay it on joists, plywood, or old boards—and it'll last as long as you remember the smell of early May in the mountains.