She touched the edge of the dye pot, then drew her hand back—scalded, again.
“Leave it,” she muttered. The cloth would have to wait. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from pain. Something had been stirring under her ribs for days now—a question, maybe.
Across the riverbank, the women were already settling. A few of them waved her over, one patting the space beside her like there might not be enough room for questions and people all at once. Lydia straightened, pressed the dyed cloth against a rock to cool, and stepped into the morning sun.
His voice was not familiar.
It cut through the ripple of the river, past women’s chatter and birdsong. Calm but not gentle. Not soft. As if he spoke things already true, and only now being heard.
She sat on the outer edge of the circle, hands clasped in her lap. Paul. That was his name. Not a preacher, not in the usual sense—he didn’t try to rouse emotion or stir awe. He spoke like a man who had seen God with his own ruined eyes.
“…We have come to speak of the promise of God,” he was saying now. “Fulfilled in Jesus the Christ, who was crucified, and raised.”
It was like a thread pulled taut in her chest, one she hadn’t known was there. Lydia blinked. She heard the words, but something else struck deeper—the way he said raised, like he meant it. Like it was not impossible.
The others listened, too. Some nodded. Some furrowed brows.
“You say this man came from heaven?” one asked.
“No,” Paul said. “He came from Nazareth. But He was the Son of God. He welcomed the poor, healed the broken, and bore our sin. He died. But Death did not keep Him.”
A breeze moved across the water—nothing dramatic. Just motion. But Lydia startled as if she'd heard her own name.
She looked down at her hands. Her skin was stained deep purple from the morning’s work—wealthy color, rare and costly. Purple was what she understood. Markets, trade routes, governors, Roman wives with gold pins in their hair. Money moved through her like she was part of the road itself.
But this—this was not trade. Not profit. This was different.
The longing nudged at her again. Not noisy, not urgent. Just there. That God—the real God—might want to know her. That this Jesus was not only for the poor or the broken, but for the strong, the sharp, the ones who had never let their spine curve, even under Rome’s weight.
Paul went quiet. No persuasion. No pressure. Just silence long enough for choice.
And that was when Lydia felt it. A door open—not in the sky, not around her—but within.
She didn’t remember standing. Only Paul’s eyes lifting when she did.
“I believe,” she said.
The words stood awkward and new in her mouth. She swallowed hard. “If you think me faithful to the Lord… come stay in my home.”
There was a beat. Then Paul smiled, quietly. The other man—Silas—gave a short nod.
Lydia exhaled. Not relief, not quite—but release.
That night, the fire cracked low in her courtyard. They had eaten. Her household was quiet. A jug of wine sat untouched at the table’s corner.
Paul spoke sparingly now; he seemed to carry his silence with as much care as his words. Across from him, Lydia stared into the embers, slow and still.
She was not afraid. That surprised her most.
Tomorrow, the market would move as always. Clients would expect shipments. The purple dye would cool by sunrise. But something in the world had shifted, just a little. A door opened, and light had entered—not loudly, but truly.
There were footsteps at the stairs—her steward, perhaps, checking the lamps. Lydia didn’t turn.
She reached for the bread, broke off a piece, and set it between them.
She touched the edge of the dye pot, then drew her hand back—scalded, again.
“Leave it,” she muttered. The cloth would have to wait. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from pain. Something had been stirring under her ribs for days now—a question, maybe.
Across the riverbank, the women were already settling. A few of them waved her over, one patting the space beside her like there might not be enough room for questions and people all at once. Lydia straightened, pressed the dyed cloth against a rock to cool, and stepped into the morning sun.
His voice was not familiar.
It cut through the ripple of the river, past women’s chatter and birdsong. Calm but not gentle. Not soft. As if he spoke things already true, and only now being heard.
She sat on the outer edge of the circle, hands clasped in her lap. Paul. That was his name. Not a preacher, not in the usual sense—he didn’t try to rouse emotion or stir awe. He spoke like a man who had seen God with his own ruined eyes.
“…We have come to speak of the promise of God,” he was saying now. “Fulfilled in Jesus the Christ, who was crucified, and raised.”
It was like a thread pulled taut in her chest, one she hadn’t known was there. Lydia blinked. She heard the words, but something else struck deeper—the way he said raised, like he meant it. Like it was not impossible.
The others listened, too. Some nodded. Some furrowed brows.
“You say this man came from heaven?” one asked.
“No,” Paul said. “He came from Nazareth. But He was the Son of God. He welcomed the poor, healed the broken, and bore our sin. He died. But Death did not keep Him.”
A breeze moved across the water—nothing dramatic. Just motion. But Lydia startled as if she'd heard her own name.
She looked down at her hands. Her skin was stained deep purple from the morning’s work—wealthy color, rare and costly. Purple was what she understood. Markets, trade routes, governors, Roman wives with gold pins in their hair. Money moved through her like she was part of the road itself.
But this—this was not trade. Not profit. This was different.
The longing nudged at her again. Not noisy, not urgent. Just there. That God—the real God—might want to know her. That this Jesus was not only for the poor or the broken, but for the strong, the sharp, the ones who had never let their spine curve, even under Rome’s weight.
Paul went quiet. No persuasion. No pressure. Just silence long enough for choice.
And that was when Lydia felt it. A door open—not in the sky, not around her—but within.
She didn’t remember standing. Only Paul’s eyes lifting when she did.
“I believe,” she said.
The words stood awkward and new in her mouth. She swallowed hard. “If you think me faithful to the Lord… come stay in my home.”
There was a beat. Then Paul smiled, quietly. The other man—Silas—gave a short nod.
Lydia exhaled. Not relief, not quite—but release.
That night, the fire cracked low in her courtyard. They had eaten. Her household was quiet. A jug of wine sat untouched at the table’s corner.
Paul spoke sparingly now; he seemed to carry his silence with as much care as his words. Across from him, Lydia stared into the embers, slow and still.
She was not afraid. That surprised her most.
Tomorrow, the market would move as always. Clients would expect shipments. The purple dye would cool by sunrise. But something in the world had shifted, just a little. A door opened, and light had entered—not loudly, but truly.
There were footsteps at the stairs—her steward, perhaps, checking the lamps. Lydia didn’t turn.
She reached for the bread, broke off a piece, and set it between them.
