The Frank Schott Barn stood in silence that cold March night, wooden timbers eroded away by time, the stone structure left standing alone, a relic of Minnesota’s prairie past.

My research had led me here, knowing the Milky Way would stretch like a cosmic ribbon above its roof.

I set my tripod on the frozen ground, The cold bit deep, so I retreated to my vehicle, savoring what silence truly means. No cars passed on the gravel road, no coyotes called across the fields—only the galaxy’s glow kept me company, slipping out to check exposures between moments of quiet reflection.

The Milky Way arched gracefully over the barn, and though I shivered, I felt invigorated. This quiet vigil marked the beginning of another Milky Way season, and the barn became my cathedral beneath the stars.

Several hours later, chilled but alive with energy, I finally lowered my camera. The barn—once a working heart of the land—now stood as witness to the cosmos, its weathered stones framed by light a thousand lifetimes old.