The mistake Heaven makes is assuming that no answer means yes.
Silence settles after the terms are spoken. Not the reverent hush of shrines or the heavy quiet of fear. This silence is thinner. Watchful. The kind that belongs to people who are thinking instead of praying.
Heaven waits.
Across the valleys where its quiet assistance once lingered, grain does not spoil faster. Bridges do not crumble. Sickness does not surge. Nothing bad happens.
Nothing extra happens either.
And Heaven takes that for permission.
The help returns—carefully.
A frost recedes from orchards before it can bite too deep. A fever breaks a night earlier than expected. The assistance is subtle enough to be deniable, gentle enough to be framed as coincidence.
Rowan’s voice tightens through the network. “It’s doin
