Chapter 15
Hayden
The sunlight filters through the windshield as I pull into the funeral home lot, pale streaks catching on the dashboard.
I squint behind my sunglasses, mouth dry, dignity questionable.
My mortality is showing. Enthusiastically.
My body aches in ways I haven’t felt in decades, and none of them subtle.
Mortals do this recreationally, I think bitterly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. Tequila. Dancing. Sex so intense it rearranges your spine. Then repeat.
I brush the thought aside and step out of the car.
I’m not exactly hungover. Just dehydrated, sore in a few specific ways. No headache. No shame. Just a residual current under the skin and I think my body’s still catching up.
Last night wasn’t penance. It was pleasure, which feels more dangerous. Want has always been the sharper blade.
My hands still remember the heat of Levi’s skin. The shape of his mouth against mine. The way his fingers threaded through my hair as if he didn’t want to let go.
My shadows haven’t quite settled, either.
Irene is already at her desk when I walk in. She sips her tea slowly.
“Morning,” she says, eyes still on whatever paperwork she’s pretending to care about. “You’re late.”
“Four minutes is a rounding error,” I reply, setting my briefcase down with more precision than necessary.
She pauses.
I know what she sees. Pressed clothes, as always, but chosen in haste. Hair not unruly, but not fully styled, either. A flush clinging to my cheekbones. Like something cracked me open and didn’t bother sealing the edges.
“You look…relaxed,” she says suspiciously.
I adjust my cuff links. “I’m piloting a softer aesthetic.”
Irene takes another sip of her tea. “You’re glowing.”
“I assure you, it’s just moisturizer,” I lie.
She hums. “Must be new.”
I glance at my cuff. “I had…a night.”
She sets her cup down, slow and deliberate. “I gathered as much when your usual six forty-five A.M. brooding session failed to make an appearance.”
“You keep a log?”
“I have a memory,” she says. “And a keen sense for pattern.”
“Maybe I’m just evolving.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re finally tangled up in something that’s been able to penetrate your armor.”
Her emphasis on that word nearly breaks my facade.
Besides, armor works until it doesn’t. Then, you realize it was just weight. I exhale. “Billing by the hour for that assessment?”
Irene shrugs one shoulder. “You couldn’t afford me.”
I watch the way she folds the edge of a document. Smooth. Unhurried.
“You ever take a day off?” I ask.
Irene doesn’t look up. “I took yesterday off.”
“To dominate a soup competition,” I say. “That doesn’t count.”
She hums, taking another sip. “Winning always counts.”
I shake my head. “You’ve worked beside me for decades and never mentioned you’re apparently the queen of soup?”
“It didn’t seem relevant.”
“You’re the reigning champion of a town-wide event. That feels extremely relevant.”
She raises a brow, unimpressed. “Historically, I wasn’t sure you’d care.”
She’s not wrong.
I lean forward, elbows on my desk. “Well, consider me invested. What else don’t I know? Dramatic second life I’m not privy to?”
Irene sets her mug down. “Plenty. But I’m not in the habit of giving away all my secrets before lunch.”
“Seriously,” I press, quieter this time. “What do you do when you’re not here?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “I read. Garden. Spend time with my sister when she’s in town. Quiet things.”
“That’s…nice.”
She studies me. “You sound surprised.”
“I guess I never thought about it.”
“You never think about it,” she replies gently. “You like things quiet. Controlled. But life’s in the interruptions, Hayden. Not the silence.”
Her words catch, and I don’t deflect this time. I’ve built my life around silence, mistaking it for safety. Interruptions used to mean mistakes. Today, they sound like possibilities. Irene picks her mug back up. “Sometimes, it takes a loud inconvenience to remind you you’re alive.”
Levi’s smile flashes in my mind. His laugh. My shadows pressed against him like they knew the truth before I did.
“I suppose,” I admit.
“Oh, hush,” she says, not looking up. “Undone looks better on you than you think.”
“You’re intolerable.”
She meets my gaze, steady and wry. “And yet, you keep me employed.”
· · ·
After my tentative attempt at human connection with Irene, and the unnecessary dissection of my personal life, I retreat to the sanctuary of my office, seeking solace in logistics.
Death certificates. Casket orders. Scheduling forms that require little to no emotional investment.
This familiar rhythm is normally calming. Stamp. Sign. Sort. Breathe.
But my thoughts drift.
To Levi’s voice. His skin. How easily I’ve let myself want.
I’m still riding the high of that realization, resisting the urge to text him something embarrassingly human, when Irene’s voice floats through the hallway, low and respectful. “Mrs. Caldwell. I’ll let Mr. Harlow know you’re here.”
I sit up straighter.
Marjorie Caldwell.
Everyone in Stonevale knows the name. Her husband, Edmond, practically had life tenure on the town council.
A soft knock. Irene appears in the doorway. “Marjorie Caldwell. She’s here to make arrangements.”
I nod, already standing. “Thank you.”
She’s waiting in the hall, immaculate like always. Black wool coat buttoned neatly. Gloves folded in one hand, silver hair pulled into a strict twist, and tired, glassy eyes. Grief has a posture. Hers is rigid.
“Mrs. Caldwell,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Her grip is firmer than I expect. She nods. “Thank you, Mr. Harlow.”
I lead her into the consultation room. Neutral walls, soft lighting, chairs designed for comfort that they never quite deliver. I take the seat opposite her, but don’t speak right away. I’ve learned better than to rush this part.
Marjorie inhales, then holds it.
“He passed late last night,” she says, her voice steady but stretched thin at the edges. “In his sleep. Just…gone when I woke up.”
I nod, careful not to press. “I’m very sorry.”
We move through the practicalities. Service preferences, burial arrangements, obituary details. She’s organized, listing off items like someone who’s used to making firm decisions. But her voice wavers, and her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for the tissue box.
I feel him before I see him. The air shifts, temperature ticking down, fragile as glass waiting to shatter.
When I glance toward the corner near the doorway, Edmond Caldwell is faded at the edges, the way spirits often are.
He sits in the seam between here and not, the outline of his presence stitched loosely into the fabric of this room.
He looks much as he did in life…gray hair neat, mustache full, collar stiff.
But there’s something different about him now, something I never noticed in the few times I saw him out and about town.
Love.
Etched into every line of his face, the way his gaze softens watching her, the way his shoulders tilt forward as if to bridge the impossible distance between them.
In life, Edmond stood ramrod straight, affection buried in civic duty.
But death strips that away. There’s no pride left to protect. No ego. Just the truth of your heart.
Marjorie clears her throat. “I knew it was coming,” she says, the strength in her voice wavering. “You prepare; you plan. But knowing doesn’t make it easier, does it?”
Edmond remains standing vigil, his presence woven into the space between us.
His gaze filled with so much unspoken tenderness it makes my chest ache.
Grief lingers not in absence, but in the love with nowhere to go.
I’ve stored other people’s loss and love but it’s still heavier than stone.
His eyes track her every movement, the slight tremor in her hands, the way her breath hitches when she says my husband like it’s now a foreign phrase.
“No,” I murmur quietly, my voice softer than usual. “It doesn’t.”
We move through the rest of the arrangements methodically. Details are easier to manage than feelings. Marjorie barely reacts until I mention the floral arrangements.
“White lilies are traditional,” I offer out of habit.
Her face twists immediately. “Not lilies.”
I blink. It’s rare to get such a visceral response to flowers.
“My mother-in-law insisted on them for every occasion,” she mutters, her grief sharpening into resentment. “Said they were dignified. But all I see when I look at them are the pretend smiles she wore in public, then the way her nose would turn up the second no one was watching.”
Edmond shifts like he’s suppressing a chuckle, agreeing with his beloved. It’s so mundane, so human, this private little reaction to something as simple as lilies.
“No lilies,” I log, clearing my throat and writing it larger than necessary. Listening is the point.
When we finish, I walk her to the door. Edmond trails behind, not letting the space between them grow any wider. He doesn’t reach for her, though. They never do. Maybe because they know they can’t. Maybe because that’s the hardest part.
Marjorie pauses at the door with a tired smile. “Thank you, Mr. Harlow. This…helps.”
I nod, my throat tighter than usual.
She steps out, the door clicking behind her. Edmond hovers in the doorway, his expression more intimate now. Not grief. Just the unbearable ache of loving someone so deeply with no way to show it anymore.
I stand there for a moment, my hand resting lightly on the back of the chair she occupied, staring at the spot where he remains.
“You loved her well,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath.
His gaze shifts toward me. He doesn’t nod. Love rarely performs on command.
And then he’s gone. No fanfare. Just gone.
I sit back down, staring at the empty chair, the air feeling heavier than before.
I think of Levi.
Of the way his laugh fills a room without trying. The way I felt when we kissed in that library and again last night. Like every version of me, every century I’ve lived, finally made sense in that brief moment.
And it terrifies me because wanting that means risking the one truth I’ve never outrun: that mortals leave. Whether by choice or by time, they always go. And I will always still be here.
I reach for my phone, my thumb hovering over Levi’s name.
Me: I need something that isn’t lilies.
A pause. Then:
Levi: Is this a metaphor or an actual request?
Despite the twinge in my heart, I smile. Small, but real.
Me: Actual request for a funeral arrangement. It needs to be…special.
His reply comes quickly, filling my heart with something close to hope.
Levi: Anything you need. I’ve got you.