“Then I’ll keep pulling. Same time next week?” I place my worn copy of the Act back in my briefcase and close it with a quiet click.
Constance folds her arms. “Same time, Hayden. Good luck.”
I turn to leave, their voices fading behind me, but not quickly enough to miss Lorraine’s amused farewell: “Maybe next time you’ll get what you want.”
“Or not,” Agnes adds softly, laughter trailing me out.
I step out of city hall, the heavy wooden door closing firmly behind me. With every step, my anger curdles into weariness, a new wave of doubt creeping into my bones.
Another wasted trip. Another loop in a maze with no exit.
Maybe Agnes is right.
Maybe it’s time to let go.
But even as the thought surfaces, I bury it deep. Because if I stop fighting now, there will be nothing left of me. Just an empty god-turned-man forgotten by history, overlooked by family, stranded forever in the gray space between both worlds.
Stonevale is the kind of peaceful small town most people would choose for themselves as a fresh start.
Except Stonevale isn’t my fresh start; it’s a holding pattern. An eternal limbo.
The whole town feels like it exists behind glass. I see the warmth, hear the laughter, but remain on the other side, untouchable. The people nod and smile, chatting about nonsensical things like weather and cinema showings, blissfully unaware of the ancient being who walks among them, disconnected from their gentle little lives. I’m merely a shadow in their periphery. And maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.
Acknowledged, yet never fully known.
I pause briefly outside the local bakery, inhaling the comforting blend of cinnamon and sugar. Too inviting. I move on quickly, resisting the urge to linger. It’s safer that way. Familiarity breeds connections I can’t afford.
Turning the corner on the street that leads back to the funeral home, I spot a woman walking her dog. She offers me a bright smile, friendly and casual, tightening her grip on the leash as her companion strains toward me. “Good morning,” she says cheerfully.
“Morning,” I reply, barely meeting her gaze.
I feel her smile falter, a tiny shift that’s quickly covered by a few loving words toward her dog. I’m not intentionally being cruel. It’spreservation. If mortals knew who I really was…well, protecting them from that truth just seems easier.
The funeral home appears ahead, offering instant relief.
Irene sits at her desk, a tower of paperwork piled neatly before her. She doesn’t bother to look up as I walk by. “Everything okay?” she asks in a tone that expects nothing but honesty.
“Fine,” I reply. “Just eager to get back to work.”
She nods, though I can feel her gaze follow me briefly. “Coroner reports,” she calls out. “Due by end of day.”
“Noted,” I murmur, already half inside my office.
My eyes fall on something unexpected: a single white lily.
Beautiful, but unsettling.
Beside it, a small piece of cardstock. One word, handwritten by only one man. I pick it up carefully, my fingertips grazing the surface as if it might burn me.
Sorry.
I exhale slowly, turning the note between my fingers, my eyes tracing the single word as though it might offer answers if I stare long enough.
It’s a simple flower and an apology.
But it feels like more.
Almost without thinking, I lift the lily from the desk. I turn it over, marveling at how something so simple can carry such weight. Levi chose this. To think of me, select something so delicate, so intentional. The petals brush against my fingertips. My shadows stir, then still. Mortals leave flowers at graves to be forgotten after a week. But this one isn’t meant for the dead. It’s for me. I’m utterly transfixed, caught in a moment I hadn’t anticipated, where the gesture itself becomes far more important than the flower.
