Dearly Departed

Chapter 1

Hayden

The thing about death is that it doesn’t give a damn.

Not about your unfinished business, your best intentions, or the laundry you swore you’d fold last Thursday and didn’t. Death arrives unsentimental and on time, like it always has.

Which is why I respect it. Death, at least, keeps its calendar.

The sign above the door reads Harlow and Sons Funeral Home, the lettering engraved into weathered oak. Classic and reliable, like the kind of place people trust to handle their loss with care.

It’s a convenient fiction, really. The name.

People trust a “family business” more than they’d trust a solo owner with no apparent ties to the living.

I’ve kept it for the irony. Not a single son in sight.

Just me, my impeccable filing system, and a very successful centuries-long act of pretending not to be Hades.

The only company I keep are the shadows that trail me. Mostly invisible to mortals, but tangible enough to raise goosebumps when I pass.

So, when I step into my office this morning and find a sunflower arrangement mocking me from my prep table, my first impulse is to banish it from existence. Fire feels…poetic.

They look like they belong in a summer commercial. Bright petals dancing in a sunflower field, practically begging for someone to frolic through them, hand in hand with a romantic interest who will probably ghost them on Tinder within a day.

This is a funeral home, not a Hallmark movie set.

I drop my bag onto the worn leather chair by the door and give the flowers a death glare.

Their sickening optimism feels like a personal affront.

This is where people come to mourn. Where we honor the dead with the dignity they deserve.

Once, that used to mean something, as the person who had to remember what everyone else wanted to forget.

I can practically hear my former self sneering in the background. This is what you’ve become, Hayden?

The thought makes my jaw tighten.

“Irene!” I call out.

Irene Beaumont appears in the doorway, coffee in hand, looking like she could run a Fortune 500 company. Instead, she’s chosen to manage my day-to-day with ruthless efficiency. I’m not sure if she’s seen me at my worst, but she’s definitely seen me at my least charming. She doesn’t seem to mind.

Her dark eyes gleam with amusement. “Morning to you, too.”

I gesture dramatically toward the flowers like they’ve committed a felony. “Care to explain?”

Her lips twitch. “They arrived for the Masterson funeral. I assumed you approved them.”

“Do I look like someone who’d sign off on this”—I gesture again at the bouquet, searching for the right word—“this…monstrosity?”

Irene takes another sip of her coffee, completely unshaken. “Maybe the florist thought your life needed some brightening.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I assure you, my life is sufficiently illuminated.”

“Then take it up with the man himself. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your feedback.” Irene places a neat invoice on my desk. “His shop is just down the street. Levi Wilder. Always smiling, exceptionally cheerful…” She pauses, smiling knowingly. “You’ll get along famously.”

There’s something close to comfort in our rhythm, in her unflappable calm.

Forty years and she’s never once asked why I don’t age, why the shadows trailing sometimes flicker too long.

Irene is the only mortal I’ve ever met who seems to understand that some truths don’t need to be spoken aloud.

She doesn’t know what I am, not really. But she somehow gets me anyway and that unspoken comprehension has kept us both content to leave certain doors closed.

She disappears into her office, leaving me alone with my resentment…

mild, manageable, familiar. Irene, despite all her exemplary qualities, is unfortunately never wrong.

Which is precisely why I find myself moments later stepping onto the frozen sidewalk, invoice in one hand and the offending sunflowers clasped begrudgingly in the other.

As I head to the florist’s, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a frosted shop window.

Sharp-angled face, dark hair, exactly the type of profile one might expect carved into marble or immortalized in bronze.

Both of which, to be fair, have happened.

But those days of eternal grandeur are memories now, left behind when I traded the underworld for… the Garden State.

The gods got temples and hymns. I get invoices and headstones. It’s a downgrade I still haven’t learned to make peace with. No one here knows what I am…or who I was. And I’d like to keep it that way.

My reflection shifts, shadows trailing just behind me. Faint echoes of a purpose I can’t quite shake. Ever present, loyal in the way only ghosts and mistakes tend to be.

I try to ignore the bitter twist in my chest. There’s no point dwelling. The Immortal Retirement Act was a mistake born of good intentions and misplaced trust. One I can’t undo.

Though I’ve tried…

The truth is I’m still not entirely sure how permanent this “retirement” is.

I didn’t bother reading the fine print or asking the right questions at the time, but centuries later, the doubt still curls relentlessly at the edge of my mind.

We were told the Act was irreversible, sealed in thread and decree.

But if the world can forget its gods, who’s to say the laws binding the Act can’t unravel, too?

Maybe nothing is as final as they’d have us believe.

In any case, here I am, stuck in this existence as Hayden Harlow, a god reduced to paperwork and forced mortal mundanity.

When I arrive at Full Bloom, the bell chimes, jarringly, and inside, it’s an explosion of color. Tulips, peonies, ivy climbing everything. A visual representation of all that I despise.

And there he is.

Of course it’s him. Levi Wilder is standing behind the counter like some sun-kissed warning sign.

His hair is the first thing I notice. Shocking red and unruly in a way that feels intentional.

Like it’s never once obeyed a comb and never been asked to.

It’s longer around his ears and curls upward slightly at the nape of his neck, catching the light like copper set on fire.

His freckles, plenty of them, scatter across his nose, cheeks, and collarbones, glowing as if the sun took the time to dot him by hand.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, and radiating light like it’s his job. There’s a kind of maddening ease to the way he moves. Fluid, confident, unhurried. A vivid flame at the heart of this floral chaos.

Normally, this type of man would repulse me. Or at the very least, test the limits of my patience. All that golden-hour charm and openhearted sincerity. It’s too much.

But when Levi glances up from a mess of wrapping paper, green eyes wide and unbothered, like I’m just another person wandering into his corner of the world, I feel something shift in my chest. The unmistakable weight of being seen.

Not the passing glance I’ve grown used to, but real attention.

The kind that lingers. The way sunlight is when you’ve trained yourself to see in the dark.

For a heartbeat, I’m not invisible, and something inconvenient hums just beneath the surface.

Curiosity, maybe. Or perhaps the early symptoms of a migraine.

“Morning!” he says, utterly unaware…or uncaring…of my irritation.

I drop the sunflowers on the counter with the subtle grace of someone about to start an argument. “Mr. Wilder?”

“That’s me,” he says, grin in place. “But…it’s Levi. No formalities here.”

“Hayden Harlow. From Harlow and Sons Funeral Home. We ordered lilies.”

Something in his posture shifts. “Oh, I know who you are,” he assures me, reminding me just how small Stonevale really is.

I blink, momentarily taken by surprise. People in this town rarely acknowledge me beyond polite necessity. Certainly never with recognition this casual. This…personal.

Levi continues without pause, his eyes lingering on mine a beat longer than they should. “I was actually going to call about the lilies. The arrangement was for Ruth, right? Ruth Masterson?” He doesn’t ask like a supplier, but a neighbor confirming a fond memory.

I clear my throat, regaining my composure. “Correct,” I say flatly.

He nods, more gently now. “She used to get sunflowers every week. Even in the dead of winter. Said they made her think of her mother.” He gestures to the bouquet between us. “So, I made a judgment call.”

The words land like a rock in a still pond.

His familiarity with the dead catches me off guard. Like he knew her.

But despite that, despite everything reasonable in me that says he was trying to do something kind, I can’t let it slide.

“That’s…touching,” I say, slower now, more measured. “But we honor the dead by respecting the traditions that hold space for the grief of their loved ones. Not by turning their funeral into a celebration of your personal anecdotes.”

He lifts his brows but doesn’t argue. “I wasn’t trying to disrespect the family. I just thought,” he says, his eyes shining with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me want to hurl myself into traffic, “something bright might help people breathe a little easier. Funerals can be so heavy.”

“That’s the assignment,” I snap before I can stop myself, suddenly unsure why we’re even having this conversation. “Funerals aren’t meant to be a spectacle.”

Levi’s expression softens into something more teasing. “Maybe they should be,” he says. “Life’s messy and vibrant, even at the end. Why not reflect that?”

“That’s not your call to make.” And even I’m surprised at how harsh it sounds aloud.

A pause. He nods, a little more serious now. “Understood.”

I exhale. “Just…please don’t take creative liberties with my orders again.”

He presses his lips together, as if trying not to smile. “Fine. But when everyone walks in thinking they’ve stumbled onto the set of CSI: Funeral Home, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A twitch of a smile threatens. Almost. “I’ll…keep that in mind.”

We lapse into silence. But something about him still lingers. The way he looked when he said her name. The ease of it. Like he belongs to this town in a way I never have.

I came here to fix a mistake. And found Levi Wilder instead…a complication disguised as sunlight.

Which is annoying.

At best.

I grab the invoice and turn to leave. Behind me, Levi is already back to trimming stems, humming softly, hair falling languidly over his eyes as if nothing about this conversation got under his skin.

The bell jingles again when I pull the door shut behind me, but this time it feels like it’s mocking me. Damn sunflowers. Damn life.

· · ·

I hang my coat on the rack, the soft thud of it almost too loud in the empty room, and sit down behind the desk, reaching for the invoices from earlier.

My shadows swirl lazily at the edges of the room, as if settling back into place.

I can’t shake the thoughts of Levi. Life’s messy and vibrant.

I try to shove them aside and focus on the task at hand.

But then the sharp, insistent ding of the service bell echoes from the front desk, immediately followed by the pointed sound of someone clearing their throat.

I glance irritably at the clock. Apparently, Irene isn’t here to save me this time.

Fine. I stand up with a quiet sigh and step reluctantly into the front room.

That’s when I notice her. She’s standing at the counter, fidgeting with a crumpled flyer, the edges bent and soft from being handled too many times.

There’s something about her that feels familiar, raw.

Her shoulders are tense, and her eyes, red rimmed and glossy from holding back tears, tell me everything I need to know.

A husband, maybe? Or a sibling. Her grief is so heavy, I can almost taste it. It hangs on her like a cloud, suffocating and thick. There’s something ancient in her pain, something I’ve seen etched into a thousand faces, but it still twists in my chest every time.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my voice quiet, professional. I don’t let my empathy slip into my tone, though I can already feel it pulling at me. She looks up, startled, as if she wasn’t expecting someone to actually be here.

“I…um…” Her voice catches for a second, and she struggles to maintain her composure. “I was looking for information about pre-arrangements. For…when the time comes.”

I nod knowingly. She’s here to take the first step toward something that feels impossible to face.

“Pre-planning services. It’s simple.” I slide the forms over to her. “Just fill these out, and we’ll take it from there.”

The pen slips from her fingers. I stoop; our hands brush. Hers is cold and shaking. One of my shadows lifts as if to listen and then settles, slow.

“Take your time,” I say, and whatever professional detachment I keep in reserve thins at the edges.

I watch her complete the forms, her eyes never once meeting mine. She’s trying so hard to keep it together.

When she’s done, I nod as she slides the forms to me. “You’re doing all the right things.”

The woman exhales, the slightest bit of relief settling in her shoulders. I can’t make her pain go away. But I can give her a little peace, a little space to breathe.

“Thank you,” she whispers and turns to leave. The door clicks shut and my shadows retreat with her, as if to honor her sorrow.

I sit at my desk again. The woman is gone, but her sorrow lingers. Somewhere in the back of my mind, Levi’s voice whispers again, bright and blasphemous. Life’s messy and vibrant.

He says it like life will always remember him. Like he’s never known what it’s like to be forgotten. Maybe that’s why he unsettles me. Because when he looked at me, it felt like that wasn’t something he’d be capable of.