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.

The bells of St. Jude’s didn't ring for Silas Vance on Saturday. They waited. In the village of Oakhaven, tradition wasn't just a habit; it was a contract. You lived by the seasons, and you were buried on Sunday. Buried on Sunday

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. Martha sat by the window, watching the golden