Sanctified Sin
A streak of rust-colored light hit the windshield, and then—
A sound.
A slow guitar intro that pulled her back two decades before she could stop it.
Then that voice—clear, aching, undeniable.
“You could be my silver spring… blue-green colors flashing…”
“Silver Springs.”
Her hand froze on the dial.
She hadn’t heard it since college—since cutoff shorts, bonfires, and singing into the wind with no one to impress but herself. Before worship sets replaced playlists. Before she started skipping songs that made her feel.
Eden didn’t switch it off. She turned it up.
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