Buried On Sunday May 2026

The procession was a quiet affair of black umbrellas, looking like a cluster of beetles scuttling toward the open earth. Silas’s widow, Martha, didn't cry. She held a single white rose, its edges browning from the wait.

The Vicar spoke of "eternal rest" and "the cycle of the week," but the villagers were looking at the hole. There was an old superstition in Oakhaven: a Sunday burial meant the soul didn't have to wait in the vestibule of the afterlife. It went straight to the head of the line, fresh for the Monday of eternity. Buried on Sunday

When Sunday morning finally broke, it brought a heavy, rhythmic rain—the kind that turned the churchyard soil into a hungry, dark porridge. The procession was a quiet affair of black