The night has fallen and he hasn't talked to a single soul.
Honestly? A welcome change.
His old job, since he supposes his new one is being a weaver or herbalist or beekeeper, was customer service.
Specifically, he worked in a convenience store, the sort with lots of drinks in fridges, a freezer full of ice creams, and that stupid plastic-glass display he always had to keep stocked with thawed lunch foods that never got bought. His boss was nice, the customers decent, but the entire place reeked of gasoline.
He didn't even work in one at a gas station!
If he never smells that odor of hot plastic ever again - which, thinking about it, that's probably where the gasoline scent came from - it'll be too soon.
He finishes the day off with a simple meal, leaving the dishes in a small pile for the morning. The bedding is easy to unmake, slipping his right arm in and flopping one half back out to be unfolded. Efficient in a way he really appreciates.
Settled in, he tries to calm his mind while still avoiding those thoughts.
The life he's led for only a day is a good one. It's full of chickens and bees, a lush garden and filling food. No people if he doesn't want them, simple chores, tasks that are empty noise in his mind.
Grind the plants into powders. Dry the flowers or hang the grasses. Weave the threads into being so tight nothing will get through them, nothing will undo them. Set the jars back on their shelves, set the bags and baskets and packets and pouches away in the storage and settle down to meditate with more weaving still.
He could easily get used to this.
He really, truly could.
~
When he wakes up the next morning, he briefly forgets and then remembers all at once. A dream not a dream, a world that isn't his world.
Great. Just like any old Tuesday.
The tension is in his chest again, but now he pays close attention as he mixes the powder, mixes the water, the feelings as he downs it all in one go. Whatever it does, it works wonders. He quickly keeps making more, settling it into a little empty jar in one of the baskets, and sets it near the water jar in the kitchen.
Makes it easier trying to get it when he can hardly think.
He goes outside, he whistles, he puts out the now-again-empty basket, and he goes to make breakfast. Chores, weaving, more chores, more weaving.
When he was told he was simple, he never thought he was this simple. This is fun for him. That's probably not normal.
Well, not much to do about it but live the life and be happier than others in the same setting.
He's just finished the last weaving he'll do before lunch when he hears a knock. It isn't a hard one, just a little soft tapping to call attention. Nothing urgent, then, and probably someone kind.
He opens the door and smiles at the person there.
A man, wearing similar clothes to Cade, only bleached from the sun so they look more cream or tan than mid-brown, stands with a smile and the lines to match the habit. Cade tries to calm his heart, mostly because he can just act sick or something, right? Or he hit his head? Amnesia could be a thing, right?
"Hello, sir."
"Ly, a good day to you! I saw you stayed in these past days. Are you well?"
"Yes, sir, if a bit tired."
"That heart of yours…" The man sighs. "We do worry about your condition. If you allowed us to pay the doctors-"
"Absolutely not." He doesn't intend to snap the words, but he's never been one to let others pay for anything more than maybe a lunch.
"Then at least tell my wife! She keeps telling me to bring you our food, and nothing I say placates her. Truly, Ly, even if I wasn't worried myself, she worries endlessly. I'd love to not hear her saying 'Dyar, how is Ly?' or 'Dyar, bring the boy this bag' and only end up coming back with nothing for her."
Cade blinks.
So this is Dyar, who has a wife. Lyan is sometimes nicknamed Ly. They know about his heart condition, and must be close neighbors, or at least know of him, as they pay attention to how often he stays indoors all day. Dyar's wife is clearly very matronly, or she wouldn't be acting like a grandmother trying to plump up every person who enters.
"I can tell her tomorrow, perhaps. I was hoping to fini-"
"I must interrupt you, I know your work is important, but health of mind and body alike are moreso! Go, go, talk to Mera!"
The man starts pressing on his shoulders, hurrying the other outside and shutting the door behind them. Cade smiles, because he remembers the old couple upstairs from his apartment were the same, and it's no use fighting it. In fact, that usually would just cause the old man to be heavily questioned when he returned and his wife to get ever more worried.
Sure, Dyar looks like he only has children and no grandchildren, but the feeling is the same.
"Alright, alright, I'll speak with her now! Please, Mister Dyar, I promise to walk on my own," he jokes. He is unsurprised when the other moves from pushing his shoulders to guiding him by the elbow, both now laughing with their bodies and not voices.
"Walk you can, but you'd walk straight past her to the market and claim you forgot what errand you were running!"
Cade would. He's glad that Lyan is the same.
It's a lot easier to pretend you're someone else when someone else is almost exactly like yourself.
~
He comes back late that night. It was no fault of Mera's nor Dyar's. It, truly, is his own fault.
Because if this is the life of Lyan, then he is obligated to maintain it. It's a good life!
The neighbors and passerby who know Lyan all called to him, spoke for ages, yet the conversation was never forced or prolonged. Houses are warm even with drafts, the plants are thriving and multi-colored atop vibrant greens, and there are birds on roofs, chickens in yards, a few mousers and a hound or two.
A colorful village.
A tidy community full of life.
And he hadn't wanted to leave it. It is a lot of difference from his usual days of constantly trying to appease those who just want to project onto him.
He gets home and immediately throws himself into the chores, careful to do them right. He makes himself a cup of that cold-tea. He eats a small snack, and that's merely because sleeping will make him hungry.
Mera was not the only one to stuff him full of food.
He knows, too, that not every person he talked to meant well. Some had confusion when he greeted them the same as any other neighbor. Some tried to make it very clear they wanted his money and so he'd given one of his stones easy as anything. Some had tried to hurt him, but why be hurt by an injured person?
If there's one thing he's learned, it's customer service. In essence, he's found, that means showing people what so much of the world forgets. If someone is upset, they tend not to be upset at him, and he treats it that way.
What has upset them? Who? What do they truly want? If they say they want something, try to give it to them, and talk through the process of giving it to them. He was very good at his work, and his attitude was probably why most of the truly annoying sorts avoided the place, but he still had his fair share of travellers with bad days.
It was almost fun, sometimes, to just see how much he can change a person's day by being so obnoxiously kind they can't help but give in.
It actually is fun when the people aren't customers he has to serve but people who think he has more money than they do. And actually feel guilty when he gives them his money.
Maybe because it's his money, and when he was in the store, they might feel a little guilty but usually just checked it wouldn't come from his paycheck. It never did.
His boss has always been smart enough to know that would only result in losing the only guy willing to apply for the job. Cade has never (and likely will never, now) found out why he was the only one applying, since it was more than minimum wage by a good few dollars an hour, more than most other jobs of the same descriptions.
How much does weaving pay? He doesn't know, but hopefully enough to continue maintaining this life.
Lyan did it, so it surely does, right?
He sits down on the bed, tired to the bone in a way that feels very satisfying. Today has been good.
Tomorrow will be the same. He'll make sure of it.