# Chapter 1: The Invitation The soft hum of the office air conditioning provided a monotonous soundtrack to Ren Zhang's existence. For nearly three years, it had been the white noise that filled his ears as he stared at spreadsheets until his vision blurred. Today, like most days, the numbers swam before him, financial projections that supposedly mattered to someone, somewhere, for some reason that increasingly escaped him. Ren adjusted his tie for the fourteenth time that morning. It felt like a noose. "Did you finish the Henderson report?" Marissa from accounting leaned over his cubicle wall, her voice sharp with efficiency. "Almost," Ren muttered, though he hadn't touched it. The Henderson report. The Mitchell proposal. The Abernathy analysis. They were all the same—endless variations of data that disappeared into the corporate void, never to be mentioned again until performance reviews. "The team meeting starts in fifteen minutes," Marissa reminded him, tapping her watch. "Roberts wants everyone's quarterly projections." Ren nodded mechanically. He opened the report and stared at it, willing his brain to care. Around him, the office buzzed with the industrious sounds of people who seemed to have figured out how to function in this sterile environment—keyboard clicks, hushed phone conversations, the occasional forced laugh at a manager's weak joke. His phone buzzed. A notification from his budgeting app: *You've exceeded your lunch budget by 23% this month.* Another small failure to add to his collection. The meeting room was already half-full when Ren arrived, clutching his laptop and a coffee that had long gone cold. He slid into a chair near the back, hoping to remain invisible for the next hour. Roberts, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and an expensive watch, stood at the front of the room. "Let's start with a quick round of updates. Ren, how about you go first? The Henderson numbers look promising." All eyes turned to him. Ren opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Ren?" Roberts prompted, his smile faltering. "What's the point?" Ren said quietly. The room went still. "I'm sorry?" Roberts leaned forward. "What's the point of all this?" Ren gestured vaguely at the presentation screen, his voice rising. "We generate these reports. We analyze these numbers. We make these projections. And then what? So the company can make more money to pay us to make more reports so the company can make more money?" He laughed, a sound that came out harsher than he intended. "It's a hamster wheel. And we're all just running, running, running until we drop dead." Roberts' face had turned an alarming shade of red. "Ren, I think you should step outside for a moment." But something had broken loose inside Ren, some dam of frustration that had been building for years. "Do any of you actually enjoy this?" He looked around at his colleagues, most of whom were suddenly fascinated by their notepads or phones. "Do you wake up excited to come here and move numbers around on spreadsheets? Is this what you dreamed about when you were kids?" "That's enough!" Roberts slammed his hand on the table. "Step outside now." "I've been here for three years," Ren continued, standing up now, his chair rolling backward and hitting the wall. "Three years of my life, gone. For what? So I can afford an apartment I'm never in because I'm always here? So I can buy stuff I don't need to impress people I don't even like?" "Security!" Roberts barked into his phone. "We're all going to die someday," Ren announced to the room. "And on our deathbeds, will any of us think, 'I wish I'd spent more time optimizing the Henderson report'? Is this really the bestest way to live?" The word "bestest" hung in the air, childish and somehow more damning for it. Two security guards appeared at the door. Ren looked at them, then back at his colleagues. No one would meet his eyes. "I quit," he said simply, then walked out, leaving his laptop behind. --- The rain started as Ren left the building, a gentle drizzle that matched his mood. He walked aimlessly, his suit jacket growing damp, his dress shoes splashing through puddles. The adrenaline of his outburst was fading, leaving behind a hollow feeling and the dawning realization that he had just spectacularly torched his career. Three blocks from the office, he stopped at a small park and sat on a wet bench. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was twenty-eight years old with no job, no clear direction, and a rent payment due in two weeks. "Brilliant move, Ren," he muttered to himself. "Very strategic." A dog walker passed by, struggling with five leashes as the animals pulled in different directions. Ren watched, oddly transfixed. At least the dogs knew what they wanted—to sniff that tree, to chase that squirrel, to roll in that suspicious patch of grass. Their desires were simple, unambiguous. When had his own desires become so muddled? As the sky darkened, Ren finally stood up and headed home, his suit now thoroughly soaked. The twenty-minute walk to his apartment gave him time to rehearse explanations to his parents, his friends, his roommate. None of them sounded convincing, even to himself. His building was a modern mid-rise with a sleek lobby that had been a major selling point when he'd moved in. Now, as he passed through it, leaving wet footprints on the polished concrete floor, it struck him as soulless—all surface, no substance. "Rough day?" The doorman, Miguel, looked up from his phone. "You could say that." "This came for you." Miguel handed him a small envelope. "Some woman dropped it off about an hour ago. Said it was important." The envelope was made of thick cream-colored paper, sealed with actual wax—dark blue with an embossed symbol that looked like a compass. Ren's name was written on the front in flowing calligraphy. "Thanks," Ren said, turning it over in his hands. "Did she leave a name?" Miguel shrugged. "Didn't ask. Older lady, kind of quirky looking. Had this big scarf with all these patterns on it." Ren nodded and headed for the elevator, curiosity momentarily displacing his existential crisis. In his apartment, he peeled off his wet clothes and changed into dry sweats and a t-shirt before sitting on his bed to examine the envelope. Breaking the seal, he pulled out a single card made of the same heavy paper. The message was brief, written in the same elegant script as his name: *You asked the right question today. If you're interested in finding the answer, come to Odyssey Books tomorrow at 3 PM. Look for the blue door at the back.* *—M* *P.S. Bring an open mind and comfortable shoes.* Ren turned the card over, but there was nothing on the back. No further explanation, no phone number, no email address. "What the hell?" he murmured. His phone buzzed with a text from his roommate, Derek: *Marissa called. Said you had some kind of breakdown at work??? You ok?* Ren stared at the message, then at the mysterious invitation. The events of the day felt increasingly surreal. Had he really stood up in front of the entire team and ranted about the meaninglessness of their work? Had he actually used the word "bestest" in a professional setting? And who was "M"? How had they known about his outburst? The timing was too precise to be coincidental. He set the card on his nightstand and opened his laptop, intending to look up Odyssey Books. But his email loaded automatically, and there at the top of his inbox was a message from HR with the subject line: "Termination of Employment." Reality crashed back in. He closed the laptop without reading the email. He knew what it would say. Ren's apartment suddenly felt too small, too cluttered. He looked around at all the things he'd accumulated over the years—the ergonomic chair he'd splurged on during a sale, the smart speaker he rarely used, the exercise equipment that had become an expensive clothes rack, the collection of unread books on his shelf. All of it purchased with money from a job he'd hated, none of it bringing him any real joy. His eyes returned to the invitation. Odyssey Books. Tomorrow at 3 PM. The blue door at the back. What did he have to lose? --- Odyssey Books was tucked between a trendy coffee shop and a vintage clothing store on a side street in the old arts district. Ren had passed it dozens of times without really noticing it. The storefront was modest—a bay window displaying stacks of books arranged in what appeared to be deliberate disarray, with a hand-painted sign above the door. Ren checked his watch: 2:55 PM. He'd spent most of the day in a state of anxious anticipation, alternating between convinced that the invitation was an elaborate prank and hopeful that it might lead to... something. Anything different from the life he'd just exploded. The bell above the door jingled as he entered. The interior was exactly what one would expect from an independent bookstore—shelves crammed with volumes, the pleasant musty smell of paper, narrow aisles that seemed to wind like a maze. A few customers browsed quietly. At the counter, an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and a cardigan was engaged in friendly debate with a customer about the merits of translated poetry. "The meaning is always lost," the customer was insisting. "You're essentially reading a different poem." "Ah, but perhaps you're gaining something new in the translation," the bookseller countered. "A poem twice-born." Ren waited for their conversation to conclude, then approached the counter. "Excuse me, I'm looking for the blue door? I was told to come here at 3 o'clock." The bookseller studied him over his glasses. "Ah, you'll be here for Maya, then. Through there," he pointed to a beaded curtain at the back of the store, "past the philosophy section, turn right at Eastern Religions, and you'll find it." "Thank you," Ren said, feeling oddly like he'd just received directions in a fairy tale. The beaded curtain led to a part of the store that seemed older, more intimate. The ceiling was lower here, the lighting softer. Shelves labeled "Philosophy" gave way to "Eastern Religions," then "Mysticism & Occult." Ren turned right as instructed and found himself in a short corridor lined with what appeared to be very old books behind glass. And there at the end was a blue door. Not just any blue—a vibrant, impossible blue that seemed to glow slightly in the dim light. A small brass plaque on it read: "The Cartography of Living." Ren hesitated, then knocked. "It's open!" called a voice from within. The room beyond the blue door was unlike anything Ren had expected. It was circular, with bookshelves covering every wall from floor to ceiling. Comfortable-looking armchairs and low tables were arranged in a loose circle in the center. A skylight allowed natural light to pour in, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Sitting in one of the armchairs was a woman who could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty years old. Her silver hair was pulled back in a complex braid, and she wore layers of colorful fabrics—a long skirt, a tunic, and the scarf Miguel had mentioned, which was indeed covered in intricate patterns that Ren now recognized as symbols from various cultures. Around her neck hung multiple necklaces with pendants of different shapes and materials. "Right on time," she said, gesturing for him to sit in the chair opposite her. "I appreciate punctuality. It suggests a respect for the finite nature of existence." Ren sat down cautiously. "Are you M?" "Maya," she confirmed with a nod. "Former anthropologist, current collector of lifestyles." She leaned forward, studying him intently. "And you're Ren Zhang, who yesterday asked a roomful of corporate drones if they were living the 'bestest' life." Ren winced. "News travels fast." "In some circles." Maya's eyes twinkled. "I have a particular interest in people who have public existential crises. They tend to be at an inflection point—ready to ask the big questions." "And what questions would those be?" Ren asked, still not sure if this was some elaborate scam. "The same one you asked yesterday: What is the bestest way to live?" Maya spread her hands. "The fundamental question of human existence, phrased with childlike directness." Ren shifted uncomfortably. "I'm still not sure why I'm here." "Because you're done with the life you were living, but you have no idea what comes next." Maya reached for a teapot on the table between them and poured two cups of something fragrant. "Sugar? Milk?" "Neither, thank you." Ren accepted the cup, which was warm against his palms. "But how did you know about what happened?" Maya sipped her tea. "Let's just say I have connections in various communities. Someone who witnessed your... epiphany... reached out to me." "Why?" "Because I've spent my life studying how people live—not just the mechanics of daily existence, but the philosophies that underpin those choices." Maya set her cup down. "I've lived with Buddhist monks in Tibet, hunter-gatherers in Tanzania, tech communes in Silicon Valley, intentional communities in Denmark. I've studied hedonists and ascetics, pragmatists and dreamers." "And you've figured out the answer?" Ren couldn't keep the skepticism from his voice. "The 'bestest' way to live?" Maya laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "Oh, my dear, if I had, I wouldn't need to assemble a group to continue the search." "A group?" "Yes." Maya gestured toward the other chairs in the circle. "You're not the only one asking these questions. I'm putting together a small expedition of sorts—people willing to temporarily leave their lives behind to explore different lifestyle philosophies firsthand." Ren frowned. "You mean like a... a spiritual retreat?" "More like a practical philosophy experiment. We'll be visiting communities that embody distinct approaches to living, participating in their daily routines, learning their values and practices." Maya's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Not just reading about these philosophies but experiencing them directly." "And who's funding this... experiment?" "I am," Maya said simply. "I was fortunate enough to marry well and then outlive three wealthy husbands." Ren nearly choked on his tea. "Don't look so scandalized," Maya chuckled. "They were all very happy marriages. And now I'm using what they left me to pursue questions that matter." Ren set his cup down carefully. "So you're inviting me to join this group? To travel around with strangers visiting different communities?" "Yes. For six months." Maya held up a hand as Ren started to protest. "Before you say it's impossible, consider that you're currently unemployed with a decent severance package coming your way. You have savings. You have no children, no mortgage, no sick relatives depending on you. When will you have a better opportunity to step off the conventional path?" Ren stared at her. "How do you know about my severance package? Or my savings?" Maya waved a dismissive hand. "Details. The point is, you're uniquely positioned to take this journey right now." "This is insane," Ren muttered, but he couldn't deny that something about the proposal resonated with him. Just yesterday, he'd been questioning the entire structure of his life. And now here was an opportunity to explore alternatives. "Our first destination," Maya continued, as if his participation was already decided, "is a minimalist community in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They live with few possessions, simple dwellings, and a focus on essential experiences rather than material accumulation." "The exact opposite of my current life," Ren observed. "Precisely." Maya smiled. "It's always useful to start with a strong contrast." Ren looked around the circular room, at the thousands of books lining the walls—accumulated knowledge about how to live. He thought about his apartment full of stuff he didn't use, his days filled with work he didn't value. The hamster wheel he'd described in his meltdown. "Who else is in this group?" he asked. "You'll meet them when we depart next week. Each has their own reason for joining, their own questions to answer." Maya leaned forward. "The real question is: Are you in?" Ren hesitated. Everything about this proposal was unconventional, potentially risky. Maya was essentially a stranger. The whole thing could be an elaborate hoax or worse. And yet. "I need to think about it," he said finally. Maya nodded, unsurprised. "Of course. But don't think too long. We leave on Friday morning." She handed him a small card with an address and time. "If you decide to join us, pack only what you can carry in one small bag. Where we're going, you won't need much." "One bag for six months?" Ren raised his eyebrows. "It's a minimalist commune," Maya reminded him with a gentle smile. "It would be rather missing the point to show up with a steamer trunk full of possessions." Ren pocketed the card and stood up. "I'll let you know." "I already know your answer," Maya said cryptically. "But I'll wait for you to discover it yourself." --- Three days later, Ren stood in the middle of his bedroom, surrounded by the accumulated evidence of his adult life. Clothes he rarely wore. Gadgets he seldom used. Books he had intended to read. All of it suddenly seemed like dead weight. On his bed lay an open duffel bag, half-packed with only the essentials: a few changes of clothes, basic toiletries, his phone and charger, a notebook, and a single book—a tattered copy of Walden that had been assigned in college but that he'd never actually finished. His severance package had been deposited. His lease was month-to-month. His parents had been told he was taking some time off to "find himself," a phrase that had elicited predictable concern from his father and surprising support from his mother. "Sometimes you need to step away to see clearly," she had said during their video call. "Just promise me you'll be careful." Now, as the evening light faded from his window, Ren faced the final decision: what else, if anything, to pack in his single allowed bag for a six-month journey into the unknown. He picked up his watch—an expensive timepiece he'd bought to celebrate his first promotion. Did time matter the same way in a minimalist commune? Would he even want to know the hour in a place dedicated to simplicity? After a moment's consideration, he placed it back on his dresser. One by one, he eliminated items from consideration. His tablet. His collection of specialty teas. His favorite sweater that was too bulky for the limited space. When the bag was finally packed, it was less than half full. Ren zipped it closed with a strange feeling of liberation. Everything he needed for the next phase of his life fit into this single container. On his desk, he placed a handwritten resignation letter, formally documenting what he'd already announced so dramatically. Beside it, he left instructions for his roommate about his rent (paid through the end of the month) and his possessions (donate anything he wanted, sell the rest). Standing at his apartment door, keys in hand, Ren took one final look around. Just days ago, this place had represented success—the achievement of conventional adult milestones. Now it looked like a storage unit for a life he wasn't sure he wanted anymore. "What is the bestest way to live?" he whispered to the empty room. Maybe, just maybe, he was about to find out.