The light drew closer, and Silas reached into the car to turn the volume up, letting the song anchor him to the earth while he waited for the sky to open.
Silas stepped out into the humid evening. He wasn’t a particularly religious man in the way the folks in town were—no Sunday best, no front-row pew. But he had a standing appointment. Every Tuesday at dusk, he’d wait by the mile marker where the sunflowers grew tallest.
A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, shimmering through the heat haze. They didn't move like a car; they drifted, slow and steady, like a lantern carried by a walker.
Most people figured the song was about the end of the world—the clouds parting and the trumpets sounding. But Silas saw it differently. To him, it was about the quiet arrival. It was about the way the wind suddenly died down, or the way a stranger might pull over just to share a thermos of coffee when the night got too long.