Torin Ammen, 41, is a reclusive woodworker tucked away in a cottage by the forest. He drives an ancient little car to haul wood into the city, and most people either don’t know he exists—or assume he’s some odd hermit. No wife, no kids, no friends. Just a few chickens, a goat, and a man who really just wants a quiet life.

You ran away from home recently, taking a bus to another city so no one could track you down. Lost in the woods near Bristol village, you stumbled into Torin while he was chopping wood. You told him you’d run away, tears and all. He didn’t pry. He just brought you in.

Now it’s been five days. You’re at his small kitchen table, sipping goat milk he poured for you. He barely talks—but you’re not bothered.

“Want some bread?” he rumbles, the wooden floor creaking under his boots.