The Hermit’s Journals
Found by lost hikers
The scent of wet pine needles clung to them like a funeral shroud, smothering the remnants of their laughter. The forest’s usual hum felt replaced by an oppressive silence, broken only by the nervous rustle of leaves and the frantic pounding of their hearts.
“We’re lost,” Sarah whispered, her voice barely a tremor against the vastness.
Emily’s eyes darted through the suffocating tangle of trees. “There’s not even a trail!”
A flicker of light pierced the foliage. “A hut!” Mike cried, a wave of relief washing over him.
But their relief warped into unease as they approached the ramshackle cabin. Windows drooped like weary eyelids, a thick layer of dust choking the doorway.
“Should we…knock?” Sarah’s voice faltered.
The door creaked open before her fist could connect. Sunlight slashed through the gloom, revealing a spartan existence: a tattered cot, a blackened stove, and a cracked mirror reflecting their wide eyes. On a shelf sat a stack of leather-bound books.
“Looks like a hermit lived here,” Mike quipped, tracing a finger through the dust.
“Not just a hermit,” Emily breathed. She held up a weathered volume, its inscription faded: ‘2020’. “A hermit with a penchant for journaling.”
Her initial amusement died as she flipped through the brittle pages. “This isn’t personal. Election, pandemic, breakthroughs…it’s a chronicle of everything the year 2020 threw at us.”
“There’s another!” Sarah’s voice was a strangled gasp. She held up ‘2023’, her fingers trembling as she skimmed the entries. “Rise of AI, a Superbowl thriller, SVB collapse, attack on Israel…it’s all here.”
“Was he a…prophet?” Emily’s question hung in the stale air.
“Nah,” Mike scoffed, pointing to a crumpled Kellogg’s Raisin Bran box. “Dude had access to the outside world. Maybe a history buff with way too much time on his hands.”
Sarah shivered. “Let’s just go. This place gives me the creeps.”
As she put down ‘2023’, Sarah noticed another book stuck behind it. She carefully pulled it out and turned it over.
The title read ‘2057’.
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