The Last Sunday
The rain had been falling all morning, a thin, relentless mist that made the streets of the old town look like they were smeared with watercolor. I stood at the back of St. Catherine’s, the wooden pews slick with condensation, and watched the funeral director adjust the lilies on the altar. The scent of fresh roses mixed with the faint, stale smell of incense that never quite burned out. My hands were clenched around a damp handkerchief, the edge frayed from years of use. Somewhere behind me, the organist pressed a key and a low chord trembled through the nave, as if the building itself were sighing.Obituary writing service…
At My Daughter’s Funeral, My Son-in-Law Whispered, You Have 24 Hours to Leave My House Seven Days Later, His Phone Rang…
