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.
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.
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.
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