Buried On Sunday (Easy)

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

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

By the time the congregation reached the church hall for tea and dry biscuits, the rain had stopped entirely. The business of Silas Vance was concluded. The week was closed. When Sunday morning finally broke, it brought a

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. They waited