The Hermit and the Revolution

Chapter 1: The Visitor

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the desolate landscape in hues of orange and violet. In a forgotten corner of the world, far from the surveillance drones and omnipresent screens of the city, a small hut stood defiantly amidst a grove of twisted trees. Inside, the hermit sat cross-legged, a figure carved out of time. His only companions were the whispering wind and the flickering shadows cast by the single candle on his wooden table.

He was a man of silence, retreating from the clamor of humanity to seek refuge in the stillness of existence. His name had been lost to the years, replaced only by the whispered title: The Hermit.

That evening, as he prepared his simple meal, a sound disrupted the sacred quiet — a frantic knocking on his door.

“Open, please!” a voice hissed urgently.

The hermit hesitated. It had been years since anyone dared to venture this far into the wilderness. He unlatched the door and found a woman, her face streaked with dirt and her eyes wide with terror. Her clothes were torn, her breath labored. Behind her, the faint hum of a distant drone patrol sent ripples of unease through the night air.

“Let me in!” she pleaded.

The hermit stepped aside, allowing her to enter. He shut the door and returned to the hearth without a word.

The woman slumped against the wall, trembling. “They’re after me,” she whispered. “The…