Alan Glamorgan was kneeling before a crucifix in prayer.
The small chapel where he was was an ordinary one in California. In a high-welfare country, joining a church not only entitled one to the state's minimum benefits, but also church relief. Year after year, he distributed milk and relief funds to the poor and children at the relief center, while also helping parishioners on the streets.
Alan himself was not a priest, merely an ordinary worker at the relief center, but he was also famously devout.
Countless people in the community had received his help. Some had made it big and wanted to repay him, but he turned them all down.
Some said they could arrange for him to transfer to a job downtown and had even made all the arrangements, but in the end, he still smiled and politely declined, willingly remaining a humble relief worker at this small chapel in the remote suburbs.
Everyone regretted his choice, believing someone as kind as him could have lived very well. Yet he insisted on staying in such a tiny place. They could only assume he was too devout, like a saint from ancient times, having long cast aside all desire for worldly things and retaining only a pious heart devoted to the Lord.
Alan's life was incredibly dull by normal standards. He never went into the city, used no social media, accepted no technological products, and had almost no entertainment.
It was as though an invisible wall surrounded him, sealing him inside a narrow little world. Strangely enough, he seemed perfectly content with it.
When he finished praying and stood up, a faint sound came from outside. Alan smiled and said toward the door, "Nedley, why are you still awake this late?"
The door opened, and an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old