A Historical Fiction Story The summer sun had barely risen above the Connecticut River when Sarah Whitcomb joined the long line of townsfolk walking toward the small meetinghouse of Enfield. The air was thick with July heat, yet a hush lay over the people—as though the weight of something unseen pressed upon them. Sarah was twenty-six, unmarried, and accustomed to living quietly on the edges of village life. Her father, a stern farmer, had taught her the catechism, and she never missed a Sabbath service. Yet if she was honest, her faith had always felt like a coat she wore because she was expected to—never quite fitting her shoulders, never quite warming her heart. Rumors had spread for weeks about the visiting minister Jonathan Edwards. They said he preached like a man who had glimpsed eternity. Some scoffed; others trembled at the thought. Sarah only knew she felt drawn—unsettlingly so. The meetinghouse smelled of wood resin and wool cloaks. Every pew was filled. Some m...