I found Mary in the laundry room.
She's folding sheets the way she does everything — methodically, each corner aligned before she moves to the next, the finished stack growing beside her in a precise column. The laundry room is warm and smells like the detergent she orders from the same supplier as her soap, something clean and faintly floral that I have associated with safety since I was small enough to be carried.
She doesn't look up when I come in. She knew I was coming. Mary always knows.
I close the door behind me. The warmth of the room settles around me like something physical, the dryer running its low steady tumble, a sound you could fall asleep inside if you let yourself.
"Aldric Holloway found me in the archive this morning," I say.
Her hands don't stop. Another corner fold
