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.”
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
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. In the backseat sat a vintage tube radio,
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. “Jesus gonna be here
He leaned against the warm metal of the hood and lit a cigarette. "Any time now," he whispered to the crickets.