Rick’s First Day in Community Zero Zero
The car engine sputtered and died as I pulled up to the large wooden gate of Community Zero Zero. It was the last time I would ever drive. I sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. This was it, the end of my old life and the beginning of something new.
Beside me, my wife, Sarah, exhaled slowly, her eyes scanning the tall timber walls that surrounded the community. In the backseat, our two kids, Liam and Emma, whispered to each other, their faces a mix of curiosity and unease.
“Are you ready?” Sarah asked, her voice soft but steady.
I nodded, pushing the car door open. The air smelled different here—fresh, earthy, alive. The scent of damp soil, cut wood, and distant smoke from cooking fires filled my lungs as I stepped out onto the dirt road. Birds chirped in the trees above, their songs clear and untainted by the hum of traffic or the distant wail of sirens.
As we approached the gate, it swung open with a deep creak. A man and a woman stood there, smiling warmly. The man was broad-shouldered, with weathered hands and a thick beard; the woman, lean and strong, had kind eyes and a baby resting on her hip.
“You must be Rick,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m David, and this is my wife, Elise. Welcome home.”
Home.
I shook his hand, feeling the roughness of a man who worked with the earth, not behind a desk.
“We’ve been expecting you,” Elise added, adjusting the baby in her arms. “Everyone’s excited to meet you at the welcoming ceremony tonight.”
Sarah shifted beside me, her fingers tightening around mine. “This is… amazing,” she said, looking around. Beyond the gate, wooden cottages and earthen homes dotted the landscape, smoke curling from chimneys. A wide communal hall stood at the heart of it all, its stone foundation and timber walls sturdy and welcoming.
Children ran barefoot through the grass, laughing, playing with carved wooden toys. Men and women worked together in the fields, some tending to crops, others repairing fences or leading livestock down a dirt path. There were no cars. No streetlights. No billboards. Just people, nature, and the quiet hum of life.
David clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”
Settling In
Our new home was simple but solid—a cottage built from local timber, with a thatched roof and a stone hearth at its center. Inside, the floors were warm underfoot, covered in woven rugs. No wires ran through the walls, no glowing screens, no electric hum. Instead, lanterns lined the wooden beams, filling the space with a golden glow.
On the sturdy wooden table, a loaf of fresh bread, a pot of stew, and a pitcher of water had been left for us. A gift from the community.
Sarah ran her fingers over the handcrafted chairs. “It’s… real,” she whispered.
“It’s home,” I replied.
Outside, David led me to my plot of land. A stretch of green pasture, fenced off with thick wooden posts, sloped gently toward a dense tree line.
“And here,” he said, gesturing toward a pen filled with grunting, snuffling pigs, “is your new responsibility.”
I laughed nervously. “I’ve never taken care of pigs before.”
“You will,” he said simply. “We all learn by doing.”
I stepped closer, watching the pigs root in the dirt, their pink snouts covered in mud. They weren’t just livestock—they were my responsibility, my contribution to this place. In the city, I had spent years staring at screens, sitting in meetings, producing nothing tangible. Here, my work would feed families, strengthen the community, mean something.
And for the first time in years, I felt something stir inside me—purpose.
The Welcoming Ceremony
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, the entire community gathered at the communal hall. It was a grand, sturdy building, its interior lit by dozens of oil lamps. Long wooden tables stretched from one end to the other, piled high with roasted meat, fresh vegetables, steaming bread, and pitchers of home-brewed ale.
The smell alone was intoxicating—smoky, savory, rich with herbs and spices.
As we entered, cheers erupted. Hands clapped our backs, welcoming us with wide smiles and warm laughter. Liam and Emma were quickly whisked away by a group of other children, who eagerly introduced them to handmade toys and wooden board games.
David stood and raised his mug. “Tonight, we welcome Rick, Sarah, Liam, and Emma to Community Zero Zero!”
A roar of approval filled the hall, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. I had never felt so immediately accepted anywhere before.
Throughout the night, I spoke with hunters, farmers, weavers, and builders. Each person had a role, each contribution mattered. They asked me about my old life, nodding knowingly when I spoke of stress, isolation, and the emptiness of chasing money for things that never truly satisfied.
“Here,” an elderly woman named Martha told me, passing me a plate of roasted root vegetables, “you won’t find wealth in gold or power. We measure wealth in strong hands, full bellies, and laughter around the fire.“
I looked around—at my wife, smiling and engaged in conversation, at my children, already forming bonds of friendship, at the warmth of a community that felt like family—and I knew.
I had made the right choice.
Lying Under the Stars
Later that night, after the feast had ended and the children had fallen asleep in their beds, I stepped outside. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of firewood and earth. I tilted my head back.
The sky was alive.
For years, I had forgotten what the stars really looked like. In the city, they were drowned out by neon and noise, reduced to a handful of dim pinpricks. But here?
Here, the sky was a vast, endless ocean of light.
Sarah came up beside me, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
I reached for her hand. “So is this.”
She looked at me, searching my face. “Do you think we made the right choice?”
I turned back to the dark silhouette of the trees, the faint sounds of animals settling in for the night, the quiet murmur of distant voices from the communal hall.
“I don’t think,” I said. “I know.”
And for the first time in my life, I felt completely at peace.