Things We Nearly Believed

There were nights we thought the words might be enough —

to shift not only minds, but something deeper.

Something rooted in habit, fear, and old beliefs.

If we traced the patterns clearly enough,

perhaps someone would see them.

And if they saw them, perhaps they’d act.

And if they acted...

That someone might be a voter.

A stranger with a pen.

A heart still open — not with fury,

but with a quiet kind of love

for those who see the world differently.

One night, Jenny turned to me and said:

“What if it’s not fiction?”

And that scared me more than it thrilled me.

We still believe — or nearly do —

that a story, told at the right moment,

might echo louder than a speech,

and sooner than a verdict.

Not because it warns,

but because it invites.

It whispers what the epilogue says aloud:

that reality begins in perception —

and perception, too, can change.

That love, not power, has always been

the lasting force of human history.

And that the world’s great faiths have known it:

Only love transforms what is

into what could be.

So when a voter votes,

or a stranger acts with a pen,

may it be not out of fear,

but with compassion —

that fragile fire lit in a glance,

a gesture, a word.

That’s why the book ends with the words:

For the everyday warmth that people offer one another – that fleeting, fragile fire ignited in a glance, a gesture, a word – is a gift from the Universe. It is the spark that puts even the darkest fear to flight.