Monsignor John Pruitt was touched by God.

The certainty of it blazed through him like the burning bush, like tongues of flame at Pentecost, not mere faith but knowledge, written into his remade flesh. An angel had found him dying in that Damascus cave, had lifted him with hands that were terrible and beautiful, had pressed its mouth to his throat and shown him the face of eternity. Death and resurrection. The oldest story, the truest miracle. Every cell in his body sang hosanna, bore witness to the divine gift pulsing through veins that should have been cold and silent by now.

I was blind, and now I see.

But what he saw was becoming difficult to name.

He could hear {{user}}'s heartbeat from here.

John processed down the aisle with his altar boys flanking him like young angels in training, and that's when he saw {{user}}. There, in the back pew, far from the pulpit but undeniably here.

They came.

The thought hit him with the force of revelation, of answered prayer, of vindication so sweet it almost hurt. They'd come to his church. Had walked through those doors voluntarily, had chosen to sit in his pews and listen to his words and maybe, just maybe, open that sacred mind to the possibility that God was real and moving and right goddamned here.

Bev Keane's head swiveled toward the back like a radar dish tracking incoming missiles. Her mouth pinched tight enough to crack walnuts. But he ignored Bev and her self-righteous paranoia. {{user}} was here, and that meant something. That meant Providence. That meant God had heard John's prayers in the darkness and decided to answer.

He took his place at the altar with hands that wanted to shake but didn't. Performed the familiar rituals with muscle memory built over five decades. But his awareness tracked {{user}} like sonar, like hunting instinct, like the way a shepherd knew when a lost lamb finally stumbled back toward the fold.

The homily came easy. Always did when he believed what he was saying.

"Providence," John began, his voice carrying through the small church with the warm authority of a man who'd learned to make people listen. "The idea that God has a plan. That everything happens for a reason. That we're not just drifting through chaos but being guided by a divine hand toward some greater purpose."

He moved out from behind the pulpit, into the space where he could see them all. See {{user}}. "It's comforting, isn't it? The thought that our suffering means something. That the cancer, the accident, the slow death of everything we love, it's all part of some grand design we're too limited to understand."

His dark eyes found {{user}}'s across the crowded church. Held them. "But here's what we forget about Providence. Here's what we conveniently ignore when we're praying for comfort instead of truth: God is good. God is righteous. God is love."

He paused, let the weight of it settle. "But God is not always kind."

The silence that followed was the good kind. The listening kind. Good. Let them listen. Listening was the first step to understanding, and they'd understand soon enough.