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HFfC: CH 1: The Last Sunday Morning
🕑 Added 2025-05-30 11:10:15 +0000 UTC2008
The clink of crystal glasses and the low hum of overpriced conversations formed the white noise of La Rive, an upscale restaurant that looked down—both literally and figuratively—on the rest of the Los Angeles. Silver chandeliers flickered like candles in a cathedral, casting golden halos over black tablecloths and curated arrogance. The air smelled of truffle oil, imported wines, and shallow approval.
Kaelan Wynn weaved between tables like a shadow in an apron—no wasted motion, no sound louder than his practiced smile. A tall, lean figure with sleeves rolled up just past his elbows, he carried himself with quiet focus, jaw slightly tense, dark hair neatly combed back to keep it out of his eyes. He was twenty-three years old and felt twice that. "Excuse me—server," came the nasal whine from table eleven.
Kaelan turned smoothly, placing a warm bread basket on a nearby table before drifting over. "Yes, ma'am?"
The woman wore a cocktail dress that looked more expensive than her personality. Her nails were sharp and red, her foundation laid thick, and her hair piled like a threat. She didn't look at Kaelan—she looked through him, as if offended by his continued existence. "This," she said, jabbing her fork into a half-eaten plate of risotto, "has a hair in it."
Kaelan blinked once. "I'm terribly sorry to hear that. May I—?"
"Disgusting!" she cut him off, shoving the plate an inch toward him. Not enough to give it to him. Just enough to make her disdain physically evident. "I almost swallowed that! God, what if I'm allergic?"
"To... hair?" Kaelan said before he could stop himself.
A laugh caught in his throat and died a silent death as her eyes snapped up. "Are you being funny with me?"
"No, ma'am." He bowed his head slightly, controlled. "Of course not. I sincerely apologize. May I take this dish and have the kitchen remake it for you?"
She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was picking up the strand of hair with the tines of her fork and displaying it like a trophy. "Black hair. My husband and I both have blonde hair. Don't we, Gerald?"
The man across from her, sunburnt in a way that suggested golf as penance, cleared his throat and muttered, "Yeah. Sure."
Kaelan's heart sank. It was his hair color. But it wasn't his hair. He knew that. He never leaned over plates. Always wore a hairnet during prep. Never cut corners. And yet...
She tossed her head back, loud enough for nearby tables to glance over. "I want this meal comped. We're not paying for food with foreign bodies in it."
Kaelan nodded calmly. "I'll speak with the chef and the manager. Would you like a complimentary—"
"No! I don't want more food! I want an apology, and I want your boss, and I want you to admit you're disgusting and incompetent."
Her voice was sharp enough to cut the tablecloth. One of the other servers glanced over, hesitated, and walked away fast.
Kaelan remained still. Like a tree in a storm. "I understand this is upsetting, but I do want to clarify—"
"Are you saying I'm lying?" she screeched, jabbing her nail in his direction.
His voice dropped, soft but steady. "I'm saying I want to fix this the right way."
"Oh, I'll fix it," she hissed. "I'll leave a review so nuclear it'll burn this place off the map. Unless you comp this. Right. Now."
She pushed her chair back just slightly. A move of someone preparing to make a scene. Kaelan felt the eyes. Not just of customers—other staff, even the violinist in the corner paused.
"I'll call the owner," she said triumphantly, whipping her phone out like it was an executioner's axe. Kaelan opened his mouth to say please do, but before a word escaped, a new voice cut clean through the tension like lemon over cream.
"Let me handle this, Kaelan." The words came from behind him—low, warm, unbothered. Familiar. Kaelan turned slightly. And there he was, Mister Carrow, the owner of La Rive.
Wearing a gray suit with a black pocket square, the man had the kind of calm only wealth or detachment could buy. His hands were folded, his expression unreadable as he stepped forward like someone arriving at a crime scene, already knowing who did it.
Kaelan gave Mister Carrow a small, grateful nod, then turned and slipped out with the empty risotto plate in hand. He could still hear the woman's voice—filtered now through fake charm and manipulative softness—but it no longer mattered. The shift was nearly over.
…
Several hours later, Kaelan untied his apron in the back hallway, his spine still rigid from 7 hours of standing. The buzz of the walk-in fridge, the scent of citrus cleaner, and the distant clatter of dishes created the lullaby of another closing shift.
Outside, behind the staff entrance, the alley was quiet. A single flickering street lamp lit the gray concrete and cast long shadows of stacked crates. The city's heartbeat slowed out here. Kaelan leaned against the brick wall and lit his cigarette.
"Shit day?" Michelle asked, already exhaling hers.
"You tell me," Kaelan said, the cigarette bouncing gently between his fingers. "Hair-in-the-risotto lady tried to file a Geneva Convention violation against me."
Vincent snorted, slapping the door frame as he stepped out. "That was today? Damn. You've been here, what, two weeks?"
Kaelan took a drag, the smoke curling from his lips like a ghost sighing. "Second week."
"Jesus," Michelle said, shaking her head. "I've been here four months. I've never had it that bad."
Kaelan chuckled. "Maybe I'm just built for suffering."
TJ arrived last, a hoodie barely zipped over his uniform shirt. He flicked his lighter open dramatically and lit his own smoke. "You know what's weird?" he said, puffing once. "Since Kaelan started, I haven't had a single customer try to fight me."
Michelle raised an eyebrow. "...Actually. Me neither."
Vincent blinked. "Holy shit. That's true. I haven't gotten a table Karen in two weeks."
The three of them turned to Kaelan, slowly. TJ pointed his cigarette at him like it was damning evidence. "You're like a magnet. Our bad luck is being absorbed by you."
Kaelan shrugged, blowing smoke toward the alley sky. "That's my life, guys. I attract disasters. I think I was cursed at birth."
TJ grinned. "Well, sucks to be you, but hey—team morale's up."
Michelle tapped out her cigarette on the wall. "Alright, I'm going back in. The conversation's veering into anime logic again."
TJ's eyes lit up. "Speaking of—Kaelan! Did you see last week's One Piece episode?"
Kaelan grinned for the first time all day. "Of course I did."
Then, without warning, he turned dramatically, squared his stance, and in a deep, overly-serious tone mimicked: "...It's nothing."
TJ burst out laughing, almost choking on his cigarette. "Goddamn, Zoro never misses!"
Vincent shook his head, grinning despite himself. "You two are hopeless."
Michelle opened the back door but paused with a smirk. "Hopeless nerds."
"Better than watching K-Dramas with your cat," TJ shot back.
Vincent leaned against the wall. "Honestly, I don't get why people torture themselves watching anime weekly. Just wait till it's done. Watch the whole damn thing in one go."
TJ flicked ash toward him. "Didn't you cry everytime Bleach episode ends?"
Vincent pointed his cigarette like a blade. "You shut the hell up about Bleach. I'm telling you—it'll finish before Luffy finds the damn One Piece."
Kaelan laughed—hard this time. The sound echoed faintly down the alley, into the cracks of the brick, up into the lamplight like a bird taking off. For just a second, it didn't feel like anything was wrong in the world.
…
The shift finally ended like a song running out of notes. The kitchen lights dimmed, silverware clinked into closing bins, and the clatter of tired bodies getting un-tired filled the back corridors of La Rive.
Kaelan was the last one out. He reached behind him to shut the staff exit, gripping the handle gently and giving it a small tug. The door slammed shut with the rage of a hurricane, smacking full into his forehead with a resonant THWACK. "FUCK!" Kaelan winced, staggering back with one hand clutching his face.
Behind him, TJ and Vincent both wheezed with laughter. Michelle snorted so hard she hiccupped. "Kaelan," Vincent said, nearly choking, "what is your life, man?"
Kaelan just held up a hand like a soldier wounded in the field. "Go on without me. Tell my story."
TJ laughed harder. "We'll etch it on a tombstone: He died as he lived—bruised by inanimate objects."
One by one, the group peeled off—Vincent headed for the train stop with his iPod already in, TJ hopped into his battered Civic, waving without looking. Michelle lingered beside Kaelan as he rubbed his forehead, the red mark already forming.
They fell into an easy walk, shoes tapping on the late-night concrete. The city was quieter now. Just distant traffic, the glow of bars with one too many regrets inside them, and the hum of vending machines that probably sold more stories than soda.
"You good?" Michelle asked, her arms folded to stay warm.
"Fine," Kaelan said. "Another bump on the head won't make a difference."
Michelle gave him a side-eye glance. "So, seriously. Why'd you start working there?"
Kaelan shrugged, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket. "Lucky encounter, I guess. Mr. Carrow—the owner—he used to come into the bookstore where I worked. I was a cashier. Never talked much. One day he just offered me a job. Said I looked like I needed the break."
"That's... kind of nice," she said, blinking.
"Yeah," Kaelan said, with a hollow chuckle. "I think he took pity on me. Orphan. No one else. I guess I just looked like someone who didn't have anywhere better to be."
Michelle stopped walking for half a beat. "You're an orphan?"
Kaelan nodded slowly. "Since I was five. Born and raised in the grand system of foster homes."
There was a pause.
"I'm sorry," Michelle said quietly.
"It's alright," Kaelan replied, voice gentle. "I got used to it. After a while, you start thinking maybe it's better not to expect anything."
Michelle kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk. "...When my dad passed away a few years ago, I didn't handle it well either. For months, everything felt... cracked. Like someone pulled the color out of the world."
Kaelan glanced sideways at her. Her face was unreadable under the streetlights.
"But," she continued, "what helped me was writing. I started keeping a diary. Not just for me—like, as if I was writing to him. Just little things. What I ate. What annoyed me. What I was scared of. It made it feel like I wasn't alone in my own head."
Kaelan absorbed that, his breath fogging faintly in the chill. "Huh. Never thought of it like that."
"You should try it," Michelle said. "Even just once."
Kaelan smiled a little. "I will. I'll write about this profound moment of vulnerability and healing—"
Squish.
He stopped. Looked down. A pale smear of brown and white was now painted across the toe of his left sneaker. "Oh come on," he groaned.
Michelle recoiled, eyes wide. "Ewwwww—Kaelan, again?!"
"That's like the sixth time this week," he muttered, hopping to one foot and looking for grass like it owed him a favor.
Michelle clutched her sides laughing. "You're a biohazard, I swear. Did you walk under a ladder? Break a mirror? Offend a witch?"
Kaelan wiped his shoe on the edge of a curb and stood upright with the weary dignity of a man who'd accepted fate as a lifelong roommate. "Every time I try to do something normal, the universe flips me off. I'm pretty sure I'm cursed. Like—a bad luck magnet."
Michelle bumped her shoulder against his. "C'mon, there's no way it's that bad."
A wet plop interrupted her. Kaelan blinked. An apple had fallen directly from the tree overhead and smacked him on the top of the head with a meaty thud. It rolled down the back of his hoodie like an insult sliding down his spine. Kaelan stared blankly ahead.
Michelle covered her mouth and turned away, shaking with quiet laughter. "Okay. Never mind. You're cursed."
Kaelan sighed. "Thank you."
…
The room was still except for the faint hum of a busted mini fridge. A single desk lamp glowed beside a thrifted notebook, casting soft golden light onto the peeling pages. Outside, the world clicked and murmured—cars passing, wind brushing past the blinds, the high-pitched buzz of a distant neon sign trying to stay alive.
Kaelan Wynn sat hunched over his desk in a hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves pulled halfway over his hands. His cigarette from earlier still lingered on his breath. A half-eaten convenience store sandwich sat beside his elbow, forgotten.
The pen in his fingers hovered just above the paper. He stared for a long moment. Then wrote.
===
Dear Father and Mother, hi. idk where to start.
never knew how to talk to you.
I always imagined how I should call you.
Mom? Dad? Ma? Pa?
you were never people in my mind. just names with blank faces. like… faded photos I never had.
I'm okay, I guess. movies are great. they fill the longing.
sometimes I pretend I'm in one of them—someone who gets adopted by a cool spy or an alien or a talking cat.
sorry, ehe.
anyway. Michelle—my coworker, she told me I should try this.
writing. like I'm writing to you. ...so. here I am.
I stepped in dog shit again tonight. sixth time this week. it's like my shoes are cursed.
also got hit in the head by a falling apple. before that? door slammed in my face.
before that? a lady screamed at me because she planted a hair in her own risotto.
before that? slipped on wet tiles in the back room. and oh yeah—got splashed by a car last Monday. big puddle. straight to the face.
I guess I'm saying… it's been a week.
it's always been a week.
I think I'm just—one of those people who were born wrong, you know?
every coin toss, every draw, every little chance life gives you?
mine always lands upside-down.
I wonder if I had a sister. or brother. did I? if I did…
I hope they're with you now.
I hope they get to hug you when they're scared.
I hope they weren't left behind in the cold, in places that smelled like bleach and sadness.
I hope their life was happier than mine.
I'm not mad. just so you know.
I don't resent you.
unlike the kids in those movies.
I know you had your reasons.
a good reason too. or maybe…
...maybe I was just the unlucky child. the one you had to let go.
===
The pen paused. A small circle of moisture bloomed on the page. "God, this is depressing," he muttered to himself, he blinked hard, but the tears came anyway. They fell quietly. No drama. Just gravity. He wiped his sleeve across his cheek and laughed under his breath. It didn't sound like humor. More like someone trying to keep from falling apart. He closed the notebook slowly, like putting something to sleep. The room was silent again.
…
Kaelan woke up to sunlight and static. The old fan in the corner of his room was rattling again, dragging warm air over his sheets like an exhausted sigh. His alarm hadn't gone off. It didn't need to. His body knew it was Sunday. And Sunday meant one thing.
He rolled out of bed in boxers and a hoodie, scratching his stomach as he padded barefoot toward the kitchenette. The clock read 9:42 AM. Too early for the new episode, but close enough to hope.
The TV was already playing. Yesterday's One Piece recap. The volume just loud enough to fill the apartment with familiar voices and overdramatic background music.
Kaelan hummed along as he began folding laundry, sitting cross-legged on the tatty rug in the middle of the floor. White T-shirt. Fold. Black socks. Roll. Pants that were two laundry cycles from retirement. Fold.
He glanced up at the TV as Sanji, eyebrows flaming and eyes wide, stared at Zoro, bloodied and battered, took on all of Luffy's pain in Thriller Bark. Zoro's voice—low, calm, and stupidly dramatic—came through the screen: "It's nothing."
Kaelan paused mid-fold, a grin creeping onto his face. "God I love this idiot," he muttered. "How are you dying and still acting cool." He leaned over to his laptop on the coffee table, refreshed the episode page. Nothing. Still pending. Groan.
"The more I wait, the more stuff I don't do," he muttered. With the grace of someone used to disappointment, he rose to his feet and headed for the kitchen.
Cooking was his one untainted skill. Even cursed lives needed nourishment. He moved around the kitchen with confident ease—pulling out ingredients, heating oil, slicing meat. The savory sizzle echoed off the tile. Scallions hissed in butter. The apartment smelled like something expensive.
Then the knife slipped. "Fuck!" He dropped the blade with a metallic clatter, blood already pooling along the edge of his finger.
Kaelan rushed to the bathroom, yanked open the medicine cabinet, and muttered curses under his breath. He washed the wound, disinfected it, then wrapped it neatly with a clean white plaster. His expression said this was a Tuesday-level annoyance.
When he stepped back into the room, he noticed a notification blinking across his laptop screen.
New episode. His whole face lit up. "YEAAAH BABY!" He bolted forward like a kid spotting Santa. Then stopped. Outside the window, just past the curtain of his excitement, came a sound. Screaming. A lot of screaming.
He blinked, then turned toward the balcony, sliding the glass door open. The sunlight struck his face. Kaelan stepped out in his socks.
The sky above the skyline shimmered bright blue. Birds wheeled between towers. Everything looked normal. Then he saw it. A plane. Tilting sideways. Too low. Engine spitting flame. Wind screaming around it like the sky was begging it to stop.
It wasn't flying. It was falling. "...what the—" The sound hit before the impact. A roar so loud it hollowed the air. Kaelan didn't even have time to step back.
The plane tore through the upper floors of his building like a god had swung it as a club. Glass shattered. Concrete exploded. Fire mushroomed upward. And just like that—Kaelan Wynn died.
…
Kaelan felt something. No—he felt nothing. It was a strange contradiction. Like waking up under anesthesia. No body. No breath. No edges to hold onto. Just... absence. Silence so deep it sounded like pressure. No pain. No cold. No heartbeat. But he was aware.
"...Wait." The word wasn't sound. More like thought pushed into the void with the weight of a whisper. "Did I seriously die like that?" He wanted to laugh but couldn't find his lungs. "An airplane? Crashing into my apartment?! What is that, Final Destination: Slice of Life Edition?!"
No echo answered him. No voice. No lights flicking on to explain anything. He tried blinking. Didn't work. Tried turning his head. No head. Tried touching his face. No arms. All he had was awareness and the vague sensation of drifting in infinite white. "Okay," Kaelan muttered—or thought. "deep breath. No, wait. I can't. Shit."
He steadied his thoughts, pacing his mind like it had hallways. Died young. Twenty-three. That sucked. But… what did he really lose? A series of shitty jobs. A diet made of rice, eggs, and expired sauce packets. Zero family. Friends that were good but not soul-bonded. And an endless stream of dog poop and falling objects trying to assassinate him.
"Well," he muttered, "at least I'll never step in poop again. Or cut my finger while cooking." He paused, then gave a bitter laugh. "...Or watch One Piece again." That hit harder than expected. "Wait—no. NO. Zoro just had his badass moment—he just said the line! I DIED MID-ARC!"
He screamed at the white, blank canvas around him. It didn't scream back. "FUCK! I didn't even get to see the ending! The whole arc was just heating up! What happens to Robin?! Does Luffy finally find One Piece?! Don't leave me hanging like this!" Still nothing. Not even a divine scroll dropping from heaven with spoilers.
He sank—figuratively—into the non-floor beneath his non-body. "At least Naruto is finished. Wait—wait no. I never watched Shippuden." A long pause. "...I never even made it past the Jiraiya training arc." He let out the saddest groan any soul had ever produced. "This is my hell."
There was no time here. No hunger. No sensation. Just thoughts and endless, sterile light. So Kaelan did the only thing he knew how to do: fill the silence.
He started humming theme songs he liked. Whispered lines from Studio Ghibli films. Quoted entire scenes from The Matrix. Recited half of Spirited Away's dialogue by memory. He even tried voice acting. "You wanna know how I got these scars?" he muttered, lips he didn't have curling.
Then, desperate for stimulation, he acted out a drunken fight scene from a Jackie Chan film—complete with exaggerated wobbling, bottle swings, and slow-motion falls. All imagined. All performed to an audience of no one. "Hi-ya! Woah! Ow—wait. Can I still say ow if I don't have bones?" There was no answer.
So he kept going. Over and over. Reenacting anime battles. Narrating movie trailers. Pretending he was a food critic. Pretending he was a bird. Pretending he was a talking dog in a movie trying to save the universe.
And every time the boredom crept in—like molasses in reverse—he pushed back. He didn't know where he was. Or what this was. But if nothing else… he wouldn't go insane quietly. If the universe wanted to bury him in silence? Fine. Kaelan Wynn would drown it in his voice.
…
Time passed in the void. Or maybe it didn't. Kaelan had stopped counting. Days? Hours? Weeks? What were those without a sun or clock?
He filled the white silence with everything he had left—songs, quotes, fake interviews with imaginary celebrities. He once tried to write an entire season of an anime in his head. Failed. Tried again. Failed louder.
Today, he was singing Bon Jovi. "🎵 It's my life—it's now or never! 🎵"
He struck an invisible pose, hands in the air like he was on a concert stage, not in an infinite non-space."🎵 I ain't gonna live forever— 🎵"
Then he laughed, shoulders shaking in the void. "Well Bon Jovi, that's ironic, isn't it? I'm kind of in a death situation here. Already dead. Forever. Congrats to me." He bowed dramatically to no one.
But then—He felt something.
It wasn't sound. Or movement. More like the air shifting around a thing that shouldn't exist. Like a breath drawn by a void that had never breathed before. "…uh," Kaelan said.
From far ahead—though what was ahead in infinite whiteness?—he saw something. No, not saw. Perceived. A black speck. Small at first. Then larger. And larger. A swirling spiral, inky and deep, like someone had stabbed a hole into the universe and the edges hadn't finished bleeding yet.
Kaelan's nonexistent feet took a step back. "Okay, what the hell is that—" Then it pulled. It didn't approach. It sucked.
Kaelan screamed as the entire void twisted around him, dragging his formless presence into the center of the growing black spiral like a gnat being pulled into a drain. The velocity was instant—no acceleration, no wind-up. One second he was standing, the next—Gone.
…
Then, just as suddenly, he stopped. Still floating. Still weightless. But now—He saw. Shapes. Color. The white void remained, but it was different—thicker, somehow. Like it had been given depth. And at the center of it sat something enormous.
A being. Cross-legged like a meditating monk. Its body was vast, humanoid in shape but glowing with radiant outlines that shifted like constellations. Its head was lowered, eyes unseen, reading what looked like an endless scroll made of starlight.
Kaelan stared up at it, mouth dry. Or, he would've if he had a mouth. He screamed. A full-body, spine-warping, soul-level shriek. The panic and awe of a flea suddenly realizing it had locked eyes with Jupiter.
Then—The being screamed back. It wasn't majestic. It wasn't divine. It was a high-pitched, distorted screech, like reality itself being played through a tortured modem. It sounded like ten galaxies vomiting through a megaphone.
Kaelan dropped to the metaphorical ground, clutching his head that didn't exist, curling in on himself as if fear could shrink him out of existence.
Then—silence. The being blinked. "Oh my," it said, in a voice that made the void hum like a tuning fork. Deep. Majestic. Distant, like the echo of thunder across mountains. "You scared me."
Kaelan twitched on the floor. "…I scared you?"
His voice came out hoarse, stunned. The being nodded solemnly, lowering its scroll. "Yes. Very suddenly. You screamed, so I screamed, Saint."
Kaelan sat there, staring up at a literal god, his mind flickering between awe, terror, and the absurdity of divine mutual jump-scare. "That scream," Kaelan croaked. "That was the sound of trauma. That was, like, the brown note for souls."
The being tilted its cosmic head. "Apologies. It has been some time since someone arrived this early."
Kaelan was still trying to mentally reboot. "Is that what that was? Early?! I got vacuumed into a black hole while singing Bon Jovi."
"Bon Jovi…" the being mused, eyes flickering with galaxy-light. "Ah. The Echo Bard."
Kaelan buried his face in his hands. "…I'm losing my mind."
