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.

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. Buried on Sunday

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. When Sunday morning finally broke, it brought a