Chapter 42: Chores

Then it was time for chores. Glen, who had prepared the meal, was naturally excused.

Derek took care of the dishes, Nicky cleared the tables, and Argy led Blanche to the laundry room: laundry duty for everyone, especially the sheets.

The room was surprisingly pleasant for a place devoted to such a thankless task. A large window let in a soft, almost golden light that settled over the copper basins and the stacks of clean linen. The scent of soap, lightly floral, mingled with that of warm wood. Nothing felt cold or clinical here— even chores seemed to have been tamed.

Apparently, the men had each gone for their morning bike ride, even though they had the pleasant surprise of finding the battery almost fully charged.

"Go on, I can tell you're dying to ask me questions. I'm listening," Argy said, grabbing a mountain of sheets.

He handed half of them to Blanche and began showing her how to fold them together. His movements were precise, quick, almost methodical, but he slowed down so she could follow.

"See, you have to pull here... otherwise it wrinkles everywhere," he explained, grabbing a corner.

Blanche gave a small smile.

"Have you been doing this for a long time?"

"Here? Or elsewhere?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Both."

He let out a soft laugh.

"Here, I learned fast. If you want to sleep in clean sheets, you don't really have a choice. Elsewhere... let's just say I guess so, like all of us. Damn rule about not being able to know what happens to us in the other world."

He didn't say more, but his tone said enough. Blanche felt a pang in her chest, which she hid as she adjusted the fabric.

"I don't understand... Why don't we all appear at the same time?" she asked, mostly to change the subject.

Argy straightened slightly, as if the question stirred something familiar.

"Dad has a pretty good theory about that. We agree that we're dead, but that we accepted all this mess so we could live here and elsewhere. Well, he thinks that in the place where we live in parallel, there's a precise moment when we shift here..."

He spoke while folding, never breaking his rhythm. Blanche noticed how he organized the piles, almost instinctively.

"How it happens, we still don't know. But we almost always arrive in the same order..."

"As if we were each falling asleep at different times..." Blanche murmured.

Argy froze, eyes widening.

"What?!"

She bit her lip— slip-up.

"But yeah!" he burst out. "That makes sense! I always arrive first because I'm the youngest, like I'm the one who falls asleep earliest!"

He started smiling, almost proud of the idea.

"And Dad almost always comes last... he must go to sleep later than we do! But that still doesn't explain why Nicky sometimes ends up alone for days..."

"Alone? I thought Aaron came to help him sometimes," Blanche interrupted.

Argy frowned.

"Really? I didn't know that... How do you know?"

She then told him about her encounter with Nicky. As she spoke, Argy truly listened, without interrupting, nodding from time to time.

"Well, that explains a lot..." he muttered. "But why would Dad hide that from me?"

Blanche took a moment before answering, watching his face. He might seem confident, but there was something younger, more vulnerable beneath it.

"Maybe the reason is simple... Would it bother you if he helped Nicky?"

"No."

"Then maybe he thinks it would bother you."

Argy sighed.

"He overthinks things."

"Or he protects too much," Blanche corrected gently.

He looked at her, a little surprised.

"You already understand him pretty well... even though you've never met him."

She shrugged slightly, but a smile slipped through.

"Maybe I'm starting to understand all of you."

A silence settled, but it wasn't uncomfortable. On the contrary, it felt full, warm.

"So... when does Aaron usually arrive? Just so I can prepare myself mentally."

"Oh, he shouldn't be long now. Hang in there," Argy said, giving her two thumbs up.

"What does he look like?" she dared to ask.

An enigmatic smile answered her.

"You'll see."

"Very reassuring..."

He chuckled.

The chore ended quickly thanks to her impatience. They went upstairs to distribute the clean laundry.

The raw wooden staircase made no sound under their steps, yet the whole place breathed life. Weapons hung slightly askew, a few objects left behind like traces of passing, a blanket forgotten over the railing... It wasn't perfect, but it was lived in.

Blanche had plenty of time to observe her son. Delicate features, a lively spark in his onyx eyes, metallic reflections in his hair... and that way of moving, always ready, always alert. A survivor.

She felt a strange warmth swell in her chest: pride.

Argy dropped the sheets onto his bed—a simple room, but increasingly warm, with a neatly folded dark blanket, a few personal items placed near the window, a notebook that had just appeared along with a pen—then led Blanche into Nicky and Glen's shared room.

It contrasted immediately: softer tones, thick fabrics, a green-tinged light. The bed was large, framed with carved wood.

"They don't spend much time sleeping, but when they do... they want to be at peace," Argy commented.

Nicky and Glen's room was overrun with vegetation. Climbing roses trailed along the walls, hanging jasmine filled the air with a delicate scent, and night-blooming flowers seemed almost to breathe with the room. The light was green, filtered through the leaves. And the smell... divine.

"Glen says it helps them feel... alive," Argy explained.

Blanche brushed a leaf with her fingertips.

"It works."

Derek's room shifted between library and armory. Shelves packed with old books stood alongside perfectly maintained weapons. The atmosphere was heavier, almost solemn.

She glanced at the titles: poetry, requiems, 19th-century authors...

"He reads all that?" she murmured.

"All the time," Argy replied. "It's... how he holds on."

Blanche retreated before getting caught.

Then, as she passed by her own room—still unfamiliar yet already feeling like home—to join Argy, who was dropping off his laundry in his, Saphir appeared.