Chapter 1

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DEDICATION

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Every nineteen days, the Bahá'ís of Ridván gathered for Feast, and every nineteen days, Helen Park wondered why she kept coming.

It wasn't the prayers — though the prayers were beautiful, and she loved the way the words settled into the room like dust motes in sunlight.

It wasn't the food — though Ruth Mbeki's samosas were a legitimate reason to join any religion.

It was the people. The impossible, improbable, infuriating, beloved people.

There was Walter Gibbs, eighty-four, who had been a Bahá'í since 1965 and who began every consultation with "In my experience..." which was his way of saying "I'm about to disagree with everyone."

There was Priya Patel, thirty-two, a software engineer who approached the Feast administrative portion with the intensity of a sprint retrospective, complete with action items and deadlines.

There was Father Miguel — not Father anymore, he reminded people, he'd left the priesthood seven years ago to become a Bahá'í, but old habits die hard and everyone still called him Father — who cried during prayers and laughed during consultation and made everyone feel like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

There was Destiny Williams, twenty-three, new Bahá'í, full of fire and questions, who wanted to know why the community wasn't doing more about climate change, housing inequality, racial justice, and seventeen other things, all of which were valid and all of which overwhelmed the community's capacity to respond.

And there was Helen. Fifty-one years old. Korean American. Dentist. Divorced. A Bahá'í for twenty years, which felt simultaneously like forever and not nearly long enough.

Helen's relationship with Feast was complicated. She loved the devotional portion — the prayers, the readings, the fifteen minutes of collective silence when the room became something more than a room. She tolerated the administrative portion — the reports, the announcements, the consultation that sometimes devolved into the same three people arguing about the same two topics. And she lived for the social portion — the food, the conversation, the way Ruth's samosas could dissolve tension that an hour of consultation couldn't.

But tonight, Feast was about to become something different.

The Assembly secretary, a meticulous woman named Joan, read a letter from the National Spiritual Assembly. It was about a new initiative — a community-building effort that would require every local community to engage with their neighborhood in a systematic, sustained way.

And Helen, who usually said nothing during consultation, said something that surprised even herself.

"We need to stop being afraid."

The room went quiet. Helen felt every eye on her and wished she hadn't spoken. But the words were out, and they were true, so she kept going.

"We've been a Bahá'í community in this neighborhood for fifteen years, and most of our neighbors don't know we exist. Not because we're hiding. Because we're comfortable. We have our Feasts, our study circles, our devotionals. We talk to each other. We pray together. But we don't knock on doors. We don't sit on porches. We don't ask our neighbors what they need."

"We're afraid of being seen as missionaries," Walter said.

"We're not missionaries. We're neighbors. And the difference between a missionary and a neighbor is that a neighbor shows up without an agenda."

They left Feast with a plan. Not Priya's project plan — something simpler. Each person would have one genuine conversation with a neighbor before the next Feast. Not about religion. Not about Bahá'u'lláh. Just a conversation. Human to human.

Helen walked home in the cool evening air, carrying a container of Ruth's samosas (Ruth always sent extras home with her), and she thought about what she'd said. We need to stop being afraid.

She was afraid, of course. That was the thing about courage — it didn't eliminate fear. It just refused to be stopped by it.

Nineteen days. One conversation. One neighbor.

She could do that.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Crimson Ark Publishing creates fiction about the beautifully imperfect reality of community life.