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 heavy, rhythmic rain—the kind that turned the churchyard soil into a hungry, dark porridge. Buried on Sunday
As the ropes groaned, lowering Silas into the mud, a strange thing happened. The sun pierced through a jagged tear in the clouds, hitting the brass nameplate just before it disappeared below the surface. For a second, the grave glowed. The first shovel of dirt hit the wood with a hollow thump . By the time the congregation reached the church
"Late to his own party," she whispered as the pallbearers stumbled slightly on the slick grass. When Sunday morning finally broke, it brought a