The air was thick with heat, the kind that made the world feel slow, like a record played at the wrong speed. She sat on the hood of her car, parked just off an empty stretch of highway, an old transistor radio beside her, its silver dial catching the last of the sun.
Static whispered through the speaker. She turned the knob, cycling through voices, fragments of songs, sermons, weather reports for towns she’d never see. Nothing felt right.
She sighed, lying back against the windshield. Lately, it seemed like everything in her life was tuned just slightly off—like she was picking up the wrong station, one full of missed chances and words that never came out quite right.
A truck rattled past, sending a rush of wind over her. The signal flickered, and for a moment, a song bled through the static—something warm, familiar. She sat up, turning the dial carefully, trying to find it again. But it was gone.
She closed her eyes and let the hum of static fill the silence. Maybe that was the trick. Maybe you didn’t find the right frequency by chasing it. Maybe you had to be still long enough for it to find you.
The sky deepened into violet. She reached for the radio one more time and turned the dial, slow and steady. Somewhere in the shifting frequencies, a new song began to play.
She smiled, started the car, and drove toward the sound.