"Late to his own party," she whispered as the pallbearers stumbled slightly on the slick grass.
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
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. "Late to his own party," she whispered as
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. They waited