In Bracken, funerals are reversible once. Families may bring the deceased back for one day, reversing the ceremony. Caskets open, flowers stand upright, mourners walk backward into the hall. Time cooperates awkwardly but sincerely. When Mrs. Calloway dies, her son James requests a reversible funeral. The day begins at sunset. Mrs. Calloway inhales roses, sits up, and greets everyone as if waking from a nap. She eats cake before speeches, laughs, and dances with grandchildren. There is joy and sorrow in equal measure. Rules are strict: no photos, no major decisions, no bargains.
At dawn, the reversal reverses; Mrs. Calloway lies back down, exhaling. James feels gratitude, then ache. Some oppose reversible funerals, calling them cruel prolongations. Others see them as final kindness. The town holds forums. The undertaker, who orchestrates reverse choreography, insists these days are about closure, not denial. Years later, James becomes undertaker, refining practice. He introduces a moment of silence during the reversed procession, a pause to honor both directions of time. The reversible funeral never becomes common, but it remains an option, a ritual acknowledging love's wish to have one more day and the courage to let it end twice. People speak carefully at these gatherings, aware that words will be heard forward and backward. The double goodbye becomes a way to practice releasing and remembering simultaneously.
When James's own father dies, he considers using the reversal. He decides against it, feeling he already said enough. Instead, he attends another family's reversible funeral as support, offering hands to guide backward steps. He realizes the ritual is less about the dead than about the living learning to move both ways: holding on, letting go. The town's cemetery has a small section for reversible markers, engraved on both sides. Children play there, practicing walking backward and forward, giggling as they rehearse farewells.