Chapter 3
Hayden
I stand in my kitchen, arms crossed, contemplating a plumber’s backside.
Centuries spent watching civilizations rise and fall left me laughably unprepared for the exquisite boredom of Greg versus faucet.
He emits a series of muffled curses and heavy sighs alongside the squeal of a wrench meeting stubborn metal.
Mortals shrug at these minor setbacks, never clocking the endless cycle of tedious tasks eating away their lives. And I, with all the time in the world, waste it like this. Idle and helplessly observing.
I hate it.
“Almost finished?” I ask, checking my watch. Eight thirty-two. City hall looms and Greg’s battle with the sink is now a threat to punctuality.
Greg emerges, sweaty and sheepish, like he’s been wrestling a hydra instead of a copper pipe. “Just one more minute. Should be good.”
“Should be,” I echo, calm but doubtful.
He catches my tone and offers a reassuring if uncertain smile. “I’ve got this.”
I nod. What else can I do?
Greg returns to his struggle, grumbling softly under his breath. The wrench shrieks again, sending a shiver up my spine. The days of summoning silence with a mere thought feel like a distant memory. Now even peace is beyond my grasp.
Perhaps that’s what terrifies me more than leaks or lateness. How easily the world moves on. A drip, a delay, and I’m irrelevant. Forgotten.
Seby mews and curls back on the sofa, his molten amber eyes blinking in either sympathy or annoyance.
I’m not overly affectionate—I’ve never been one to coo or fuss, can you imagine?
—but he tolerates me when I stroke his storm-cloud-gray fur.
Our relationship is built upon mutual respect and an unspoken agreement: I buy the obscenely priced tuna; he sits with me in companionable silence while I work.
My eyes find the clock again. Eight thirty-eight. I can’t afford to be late. Not when every minute at city hall might be the difference between being forgotten forever…or not.
Finally, Greg straightens again, an uncomfortable look spreading across his face. “Still leaking,” he admits, as though it’s a personal failure. “Looks like it might need a different tool or something. Trickier than I expected.”
Trickier. The understatement nearly draws a smile from me. “Understood,” I say, though inside I’m sighing deeply. “Perhaps we should reschedule?”
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. “Tomorrow morning work?”
“Perfect,” I reply with a polite nod, and I escort him out. He apologizes again, and I wave it off with practiced ease, closing the door behind him.
With him gone, I regard the sink that’s mocking me with its persistent drip.
I sigh. Resignation is the only luxury left.
Exactly what I never wanted. Precisely what I’ve been given.
· · ·
Stonevale City Hall is where bureaucracy goes to die politely.
A squat, stubborn building of cracked stone and faded plaster.
Inside, stale coffee, ink, and quiet desperation mix.
Fluorescents buzz, posters promote dated bake sales and missed tax deadlines, and the wall clock ticks with irritating slowness.
And here I thought I’d known the deepest reaches of hell.
I move down the narrow hall toward the familiar office, its door slightly ajar. Three women sit behind the counter like sentinels, their floral blouses neatly coordinated but oddly out of place, methodically rearranging paperwork without any real purpose.
The Fates themselves, who traded golden threads of destiny for the endless entanglement of mortal red tape…or at least, that’s their assignment these days. For reasons known only to them, they’ve made tormenting me their pastime. Another maddening reminder of everything I left behind.
The Act never touched them; they chose this office. The heavens are empty and Olympus is out of reach. Paperwork is all that remains.
“Only seven minutes early today, Hayden,” Constance teases. Once the spinner of destinies, she’s now content to spin me in endless circles. “Feeling unwell?” Her fingers move constantly as if they still crave thread.
My jaw tightens. Punctuality is one of the few remnants of order I still cling to.
“My apologies,” I say evenly, setting my briefcase down with deliberate precision. “I’ll correct the lapse.”
Lorraine sighs theatrically, her eyes glittering with mischief.
Once the measurer of lifespans, she now specializes in gauging exactly how much bureaucratic nonsense I can withstand.
“Imperfection has its charms, you know.” Her eyes flick up and down like she’s mentally taking measurements of everything… my patience included.
Agnes, eyes as sharp as the scissors she once wielded to cut mortal threads, doesn’t look up. “Charm expires,” she mutters, pen scratching against paper.
“Well,” I begin firmly, pushing the worn copy of the Act forward, “I’m here now. Let’s proceed.”
Constance and Lorraine exchange an amused glance, a silent conversation I’ve grown all too familiar with. It’s the “we have eternity, what’s your rush?” look.
“I imagine you’d like this done quickly,” Lorraine muses. “But you know us, Hayden. Eternity demands patience. Bureaucracy, more.”
“I’ve had centuries of patience,” I counter, flipping through the worn pages. “There must be some hidden clause. An ambiguity older than Olympus.”
Lorraine raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Trust me, dear, if such ambiguity existed, we would have uncovered it by now.”
“Maybe,” I concede, “but I can’t shake the sense you missed something.”
Agnes finally looks up, her gaze piercing. “You’ve been chasing shadows for centuries, Hayden. Haven’t you considered…letting go?”
My jaw clenches. “Letting go?” It’s just a game to them. Another endless round of amusement at my expense. If I stop tugging at the knot, I accept vanishing. And if I’m seen tugging by the wrong mortal, well. Their scissors haven’t dulled.
Agnes shrugs lightly, her voice dangerously gentle. “Accepting mortality. It might set you free.”
Free? The word tastes bitter. Freedom was never mine to begin with. Their riddles always sound like mercy, but I’ve learned better. They don’t give comfort. They nudge.
I take a steadying breath, forcing down the shadows that pulse restlessly at my feet. “It felt free until the three of you decided my eternity should consist of paperwork and absurdity.”
“Mortality is tedious,” Constance agrees mildly, folding her hands. “Welcome to the human experience.”
I shake my head. “I did not sign up for the human experience.”
My brothers so casually surrendered eternity without a backward glance. They left me alone with the Act’s aftermath, their absence cutting deeper than exile. To be forgotten by mortals was one thing. By family? Unforgivable.
Lorraine slides a sign onto the counter: Back in 10 Minutes. “Perhaps next week,” she says, pleased with herself.
I run a weary hand over my face. “Or today…”
Agnes leans back in her chair, her eyes gleaming sharply. “You’re clever, Hayden, but cleverness won’t untangle this knot. It’ll only pull it tighter.”
“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’s preservation. 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.
This is why mortals are dangerous: One flower, and already I want to tell him the truth.
“Hayden.” Irene’s voice cuts through, and I jump, startled, nearly dropping both the flower and the card. My heart pounds as I look up to find her standing in my doorway, eyebrows raised.
“What?” My voice is sharper than intended.
She regards me evenly, her gaze shifting slowly from my face to the flower and the card held awkwardly between my fingers, then back up. Her expression remains unchanged, though I can practically hear her internal laughter.
“Your ten o’clock is here,” she says, slow. “To discuss the…casket delivery?”
We stare at each other, locked in a silent standoff. She knows exactly what she’s just witnessed. Me, Hayden Harlow, completely unguarded, distracted. I clear my throat, trying to regain composure.
“Right,” I say firmly, as if authority can erase the last few seconds. “Tell them I’ll be a moment.”
Irene’s lips twitch. “Take your time,” she says and disappears down the hall.
I exhale and run a hand over my face before placing the lily on my windowsill. Levi Wilder, all sunlit smiles and relentless optimism, has effortlessly breached my barriers. Yet, I’m intrigued.
Hope is dangerous for gods.
Even former ones.