The sun had not yet risen when the old hermit rose from his mat. Years of discipline had made him one with the rhythm of the world — to wake with the wind, to sleep with the silence.
Inside the cabin, a faint orange glow from the hearth trembled across the wooden walls. The baby slept nearby, wrapped in furs that smelled faintly of pine. His small chest rose and fell with a calmness that seemed too perfect for one so newly born.
Goran crouched beside the sleeping child, watching him for a long time. The boy had survived another night. He had expected fever or frostbite, or at least a cough. But there was nothing — not even the faint tremor of cold. The child radiated warmth like the embers of a living fire.
The old hermit sighed, not out of weariness but out of quiet wonder.
"Even the mountains favor you," he murmured. "Perhaps the heavens have placed a wager upon your life, little one."
He rose and went about his morning ritual — tending to the fire, washing in the basin with snowmelt, and lighting a stick of incense made from crushed cedar. He did all of this in silence, save for the sound of his breath and the faint pop of wood in the fire.
Only when he sat down cross-legged before the flames did the child stir. A soft whimper escaped its lips, and tiny hands reached out as though calling for the warmth that had moved away.
Goran smiled faintly. "Ah… even now you already seek balance. Heat, hunger, comfort — all the same struggle."
He picked the baby up, wrapping it again in his robe, and stepped outside.
---
The morning air bit like iron. A thin veil of mist hung between the trees, glowing faintly gold where sunlight pierced through. The forest was quiet, save for the slow song of the stream nearby and the occasional crack of frost splitting bark.
Goran's cabin stood alone in a clearing surrounded by towering pines. The roof was thatched with straw and moss, its smoke chimney tilting like an old man's back. Beside it lay a garden, half asleep beneath snow — herbs that would wake again come spring. Beyond that, the land dropped sharply into a gorge where water carved through stone, eternally flowing toward a world neither of them had seen.
"This is our home now," he said softly to the baby in his arms. "It's small, but it keeps the wind honest."
The child gurgled, uncomprehending, yet there was a strange serenity in his gaze — as though the newborn already knew what peace looked like.
Goran chuckled. "You understand more than you should. That's dangerous. The world doesn't forgive those who are too aware."
He carried the child to the edge of the clearing and sat upon a flat stone polished by decades of meditation. From there, he could see the entire valley below — waves of forest and fog stretching toward an endless horizon.
"This place," he said, "is called the Ridge of Stillness. I named it that long ago, when I first came here to escape the noise of men. It was supposed to be my grave. But it seems the mountain had other plans."
He looked down at the boy, whose tiny fingers clutched his robe. "Tell me, Arin… was it fate that brought you here, or punishment for my solitude?"
The baby only cooed softly, blinking at the light. Goran laughed quietly, shaking his head.
"Yes… perhaps you're right. There's no use asking questions the wind won't answer."
---
Years passed gently.
Time in the mountains did not move as it did below. There were no clocks, no festivals, no noise of roads or bells. The seasons themselves marked the rhythm of life — spring's thaw, summer's storms, autumn's harvest, winter's silence.
Arin grew beneath that endless sky.
By the time he could walk, the forest had already accepted him as one of its own. Birds perched on his shoulders without fear, and even wolves would linger at the edge of the clearing to watch him train. His laughter was rare, but when it came, it was pure — a sound so light that even the wind seemed to pause to listen.
Goran, though stern in his discipline, found himself smiling more than he had in decades. The boy was both a student and a mirror — reflecting back to him everything he had once forgotten about simplicity.
---
One evening, when the boy was perhaps five or six, they sat by the fire after a long day of training. Goran was stirring a pot of rice porridge while Arin watched the flames with quiet fascination.
"Master," Arin said suddenly. His voice was small but clear. "Why do we live here, so far away from everyone?"
Goran didn't answer immediately. He took a slow sip of tea, the steam curling like ghostly serpents between them.
"Because peace is hard to hear when the world keeps shouting," he finally said. "Down there, people fight for things that die. Gold. Power. Pride. Up here, only the river and the wind argue — and even they forget what they were fighting about by nightfall."
Arin tilted his head. "But don't they get lonely?"
The question caught Goran off guard. He stared at the child for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"They do," he admitted. "Men chase noise because they fear silence. It's easier to argue than to listen."
"Do you get lonely, Master?"
The fire crackled between them.
"I did," Goran said quietly. "Until you came."
The boy smiled — that small, wordless smile that made the old man's heart ache and heal all at once.
---
As years went by, Goran began teaching him more than speech and letters. He taught him how to sense the rhythm of the wind, how to see the flow of water as movement made visible, how to hear the pulse of the world beneath his own heartbeat.
They trained not for war, but for understanding.
In summer, Arin would run barefoot across rocky slopes, learning to move without disturbing the pebbles beneath his feet. In winter, he meditated under waterfalls, his body glowing faintly as life energy stirred within him — though neither of them yet understood what it meant.
Sometimes, Goran would find him sitting among deer or letting birds perch on his arms. The old man would shake his head and mutter, "You'll make me jealous, boy. Even beasts trust you more than they ever trusted me."
Arin would grin shyly. "They say your face is too serious, Master."
"Do they now?" Goran laughed, a deep rumbling sound that startled the nearby crows. "Then perhaps I should scowl less and smile more."
He paused, gazing into the boy's bright eyes. "But remember, Arin… the world outside doesn't smile like this. It will test your heart. You must learn not just to strike with your fists, but to guard your kindness."
"Guard my kindness?"
"Yes. Compassion is the sharpest blade, but also the most fragile. If you let it dull, all your strength will turn into chains."
Arin didn't fully understand, but he nodded with quiet seriousness. That night, as they sat under the starlit sky, he repeated the words softly to himself until they became a promise.
---
By the time he reached ten, Arin's strength had already become something unnatural. He could split stones with his palms and leap between trees like a mountain cat. When he ran, the wind followed him; when he struck, thunder seemed to echo from nowhere.
Goran watched in both awe and fear.
He had trained disciples before — proud men who had sought glory in strength — but Arin's power was different. There was no aggression in it, no hunger for victory. It was as if the mountain itself moved through him, calm yet unshakable.
One afternoon, Goran decided to test him.
They stood on opposite sides of the stream, its water sparkling under the sun. "Come," the old man said, settling into a stance. "Let me see if your body listens to your heart."
Arin obeyed. He moved lightly, almost timidly at first. Their hands met once, twice — then faster, each exchange echoing like the snap of branches. Goran smiled inwardly, proud, until Arin's foot brushed the earth and the entire ground quivered.
He stopped instantly, eyes wide. "Did I hurt you, Master?"
Goran exhaled slowly, lowering his hands. "No… but that strength—" He shook his head. "You must never use it to harm. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"Good. Then promise me one thing, Arin. Promise that your hands will always protect, never destroy."
Arin looked down at his palms, still trembling faintly with power. "I promise."
The old hermit nodded, though deep inside, unease coiled like smoke. He knew what it meant when heaven gave such power to one so young. It was never without reason… or burden.
---
That night, as the two sat by the fire once more, Goran broke the silence.
"Arin," he said softly, "do you remember the day I found you?"
The boy nodded. "You told me I was lying by the stream, crying."
"Yes. And do you know why I saved you?"
Arin tilted his head. "Because you're kind?"
Goran chuckled. "No. Because I was afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid that if I walked away, I'd never be able to look at myself again. The mountains teach silence, but they cannot wash away guilt. Saving you reminded me that my hands still knew how to do something right."
The boy was quiet for a long time before saying, "Then… you saved yourself too."
The old man froze. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his weathered face. "Yes… perhaps I did."
---
Outside, the snow began to fall again — softly, endlessly, like blessings from unseen heavens.
In that tiny hut among the mountains, two lives burned quietly against the cold:
one nearing its twilight, the other just beginning its dawn.
And though neither of them knew it, the light from that fire would one day illuminate the darkest corners of the world.
---