When the old man, instead of building a stone house, set up a simple fabric tent in the middle of the snow and began carrying hay bundles into it, people openly laughed — until the cold arrived and they realized why he needed so much straw 
In the fall, when everyone in the village was rushing to finish construction before the cold, he didn’t build a stone house or a log cabin, but a simple fabric tent on his plot.
Thick canvas stretched over a frame. Nothing impressive. Nothing “reliable,” as others said.
While the neighbors built walls, adjusted the logs, and filled cracks with clay, he carried hay into the tent all day. Cart after cart. Bundle after bundle. Dry, yellow, smelling of summer.
He quietly brought it inside and pulled the flap closed.
— Seriously? You’ll freeze.
— In winter, the first wind will blow it all away. You’re completely crazy.
— Stone lasts decades, your fabric only until the first frost. You’ll be left without a house in the middle of winter.
The old man only nodded. When they tried to reason with him again, he heard the most important thing:
— Do as you wish. But remember: when you’re freezing at minus thirty and run to us — don’t ask for help. We warned you.
The man said nothing because he knew exactly what he was doing.
In December, the frost hit. First minus twenty, then minus thirty. At night down to minus thirty-two.
Only then did the villagers realize with horror why the old man had carried so much hay into his tent all autumn 
In the wooden and stone houses, the men did not sleep. They added firewood every half hour. The stoves hummed, but the cold still seeped through the walls. Frost appeared on the inner boards. Water in the buckets froze. People slept in wool socks and jackets.
But the old man came neither for wood nor for help.
On the third day of frost, one of those who laughed the loudest couldn’t bear it.
When the old man, instead of a stone house, set up a simple fabric tent in the middle of the snow and began carrying bundles of hay into it, people laughed openly — until the frost came and they understood why he needed so much straw.
He approached the tent in the evening when it was minus thirty outside. He expected to see frozen canvas and silence.
He lifted the flap. Warm air hit his face. Inside it was hot. Almost thirty degrees. The old man sat without a hat, in a light shirt.
— This can’t be… — the visitor breathed out. — How?
The old man calmly tapped the wall.
— Double canvas. Air between the layers.
— Straw is not just bedding. It’s insulation.
— And the clay and stone under the floor retain the heat the small stove produces.
The visitor was silent.
— You weren’t heating the air, — he said slowly. — You were heating the walls.
The old man nodded.
— Efficiency is more important than size.
After a week, there was less mockery and more straw in the village.
