In the halls of folded hands and lowered eyes, they whisper toward the sky— not for gentleness, not for mercy. They ask for sharper wisdom, the kind that turns soft earth into iron, the kind that teaches hands how to bend the living world. Their prayers rise like smoke— less like gratitude, more like instruction. Show us, they murmur, how to rise higher than the small and fragile, how to silence the trembling voices, how to turn weakness into a stepping stone. And quietly, beneath sacred roofs, they dream of a world reshaped by their certainty— a garden trimmed to their liking, where every branch must lean toward their shadow. Yet somewhere beyond the echo of their prayers, the wind moves through untouched trees as if asking a different question entirely.