Buried On Sunday -

Martha sat by the window, watching the golden evening light stretch over the headstones. She sipped her tea, finally letting out a long, steady breath. In Oakhaven, the dead were buried on Sunday so the living could start over on Monday. And for the first time in fifty years, Martha was looking forward to breakfast.

When Sunday morning finally broke, it brought a heavy, rhythmic rain—the kind that turned the churchyard soil into a hungry, dark porridge. Buried on Sunday

Silas had passed on a Tuesday, mid-breath while pruning his prize roses. For five days, he sat in the chilled cellar of the local mortician, Mr. Gable, who spent the week polishing the mahogany casket until he could see his own tired eyes in the grain. Martha sat by the window, watching the golden

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. And for the first time in fifty years,