The world does not collapse when Heaven falls silent.
It hesitates.
Morning arrives without decree.
No sanctified broadcast hums the dawn into place. No shrine-chime counts the minutes like beads on a rosary. The sun climbs because it always has, because heat still answers gravity, because light does not require permission.
People notice the quiet slowly.
A baker pauses with flour on her hands and listens for the blessing that usually settles into her bones before she kneads. It never comes. She waits a breath longer than necessary.
Then she kneads anyway.
The bread rises.
Rowan’s voice reaches us through the network, softer than it has ever been. “There’s… nothing.”
Kael frowns. “Nothing?”
“No updates. No revisions. No corrective pulses.” He exhales, shaky. “The lattice is… idle
