The gravel crunched under the tires of the old Ford as Silas pulled onto the shoulder of Highway 61. He didn’t stop because of a breakdown; he stopped because the sky looked like a bruised plum, and the air felt heavy with a secret.
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. Jesus Gonna Be Here
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. The gravel crunched under the tires of the
Silas straightened his cap. He didn't know if it was Him , or just a traveler looking for the way home. But as the music from the radio swelled, filling the empty fields with a gravelly promise, Silas smiled. He wasn't in a hurry. He had his bags packed in his heart, and he knew that when the guest finally arrived, he wouldn't need to say a word. A pair of headlights appeared in the distance,
He leaned against the warm metal of the hood and lit a cigarette. "Any time now," he whispered to the crickets.
In the backseat sat a vintage tube radio, humming with static. Silas adjusted the dial until the low, rhythmic thrum of a bass guitar cut through the white noise. It was that old song—the one about waiting. “Jesus gonna be here... be here soon.”