Silas walked the edge of the farm plots at dawn, counting what grew there. The rows were shorter than they should have been. Behind him, voices rose from the cabins — questions he could hear even without words. He needed to show them the land would give enough, or they would pack their things and return to the cities they'd left behind. He knelt in the nearest plot and pressed his fingers into the soil. It was cool and damp, full of life beneath the surface. The carrots were small but present. The greens had come up thin but green. He pulled a single beet from the earth and held it up where the first followers had gathered to watch. It fit in his palm, dark red and solid. He split it with his thumbs and ate half, then offered the other half to the woman closest to him. She took it. He returned to the soil and began harvesting what was there, laying each root and stem in a wooden crate between the rows. The others came forward and started filling crates of their own. By midday they had gathered everything the plots had given. Silas stood and touched the locket at his chest, the tree carved into its surface warm from his skin. The harvest was lean, but it was real. He could see the doubt still in their faces, the fear they'd carried from the cities. But their hands were dirty now. They had pulled food from the ground themselves. That was something the mind could deny but the body would remember. He picked up his crate and walked toward the clearing where they would prepare the meal together.

Silas climbed the watchtower stairs two days after the harvest, needing the height to see what was coming. The structure still held firm despite years of emptiness. From the top he could count the cabins below, the thin smoke rising from cookfires, the followers moving between tasks. He had come up here to think about what they needed next, but movement at the forest edge pulled his focus. Three figures emerged from the tree line, carrying packs on their backs. He watched them pause at the clearing's edge, searching for signs of welcome or warning. His hand went to the rope beside him — the bell tower he'd built last season stood below, its three tones ready to tell the commune what approached. One ring meant friends. Two meant strangers who might become friends. Three meant danger. He pulled the rope once, and the clear note rang out across the clearing. Below, his followers stopped their work and turned toward the trees. Silas descended quickly, his boots finding each step without thought. By the time he reached the ground, the three newcomers had crossed into the clearing, and Summer was already walking toward them with a clay bowl of vegetables from yesterday's harvest. The decision was made. They would feed these people and see if their hands were ready for the soil. The commune had enough to share, barely, and that margin was where faith lived.