The Glass Hermit

The hermit had lived alone for years, high in the cliffs where the wind howled like a restless spirit. He had built his home from shards of glass—discarded windows, shattered bottles, the forgotten remnants of another time. The walls shimmered when the sun hit just right, casting fractured rainbows over the simple wooden floor. It was a world of broken things, and he liked it that way.

One evening, as he sat polishing a jagged pane, he heard footsteps crunching over the gravel outside. He hadn’t heard another soul in years. He hesitated before standing, his joints stiff from solitude, and peered through the glass-paneled door.

A woman stood there, wrapped in a tattered coat, her hair wild from the wind. She gazed at his home with something between awe and sorrow.

“Did you build this?” she asked when he finally unlatched the door.

He nodded. “It keeps out the world.”

She smiled. “It lets the world in too.”

He frowned. She was right, of course. The glass let in light, color, movement. It was why he had chosen it—so he could watch without being seen. But hearing the words aloud unsettled him.

“I just need a place to rest,” she added, rubbing her arms against the cold. “I won’t stay.”

He stepped aside before he could think better of it. She entered cautiously, her fingers grazing the edges of the walls as if committing them to memory. He watched, uncertain, as she settled by the small fireplace.

As the night stretched on, they spoke. About nothing, about everything. About the glass, about the past. She told him of timelines lost, of histories rewritten, of a battle he had unknowingly fled from. Her voice made the empty spaces feel full.

She spoke of the Coalition, of those who hunted men like him. He stiffened at the name, gripping the edge of his chair. Once, long ago, he had been one of them—the watchers, the keepers of time. But he had broken, fragmented like the glass that surrounded him. He had seen too much, lost too much. The only way forward had been to disappear, to let history move on without him.

When she finally fell asleep, curled under his old wool blanket, he sat by the fire, watching the way the flickering light played in her hair. Something deep in his chest ached, something he had sealed away with every pane of glass he had built around himself.

A sharp wind rattled the house. He rose to check the windows and found a crack running through one of the largest panes. It hadn’t been there before. He ran a fingertip over it, feeling the pull of time itself. He knew the Time Keepers would find him soon.

He looked back at the sleeping woman. He sighed, shaking his head.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he murmured to the crack.

But he knew he wouldn’t. Because the past was catching up, and time had finally come to collect its debt.

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