It wasn’t long before Carys returned to the kitchen, Chase turning to look at her with that same stupid grin on his face as he looked towards her, having previously simply been looking around the kitchen, mostly out the window. He slipped off the stool he had been sitting on, head previously resting on his hand and walked over to look at the stairs she was pointing to and then to the boxes cluttering up the dining room. He nodded slightly as she said that would be the first job and he quickly collected a few boxes, stacking one atop the other and began following her up the stairs.

Had Chase been paying more attention to what he was actually doing he would have realised he shouldn’t have carried three boxes at once. Not because they were too heavy for him but because they should have been too heavy for him. As it was he found he sometimes had trouble focusing and thinking clearly around Carys and, as such, forgot that he was supposed to be holding back. Once inside the room that only could be described as a library he placed the boxes carefully down without so much as a grunt before looking around and taking in the sights around him.

“Don’t even worry about it. They’re not that heavy and that’s what I’m here for.” He smiled again, a casual grin as he walked over to the cellos, placing his fingers lightly on the wood but quickly pulling them away, not wanting to risk breaking what were undoubtedly very expensive instruments. “Do you play?” He asked, looking over to the girl as he stood up, backing away from the instruments just in case. Musically talented he was not, but he was more than able to appreciate those who were. It was hard. He remembered music classes in high school and it had been easily one of his worst classes. If he hadn’t been a half-decent singer he might have failed the class entirely.

Carys had to admit; she was more than a little jealous at how effortlessly Chase manuevered her boxes of books. That was...startlingly impressive, considering his physique didn't scream 'body builder'. The boxes were packed to the brim with endless books of sheet music, journals, and far too many hardcover tomes for reason. She'd been barely able to carry one at a time down her four flights of stairs when she'd set out from New York. That felt like a lifetime ago here, sunlight streaming through a massive bow window, the air clean, the streets still and quiet.

He'd wandered to the cellos, and Carys barely managed not to cry out when he trailed his fingers along the mahogany of her favorite. He pulled his hand back quickly, as if burned. She took a deep breath; it was natural to be curious, and they were especially lovely. As he turned his question on her, Carys smiled, the expression a little drawn.

"Since I was five," she explained, footfalls carrying her closer to her treasures. Her thumb smoothed affectionately along the scroll of the cello he had touched. "I went to Julliard and played in the Philharmonic before--before I moved here." She seemed to compose herself suddenly, looking up at Chase with a bright grin. "Know of anyone in need of lessons? I find myself unemployed, and I should probably get a job. Otherwise I'll just end up in my pajamas until three in the afternoon, and that's just too sad, even for me."

Chase smiled gently in reply before shrugging his shoulders slightly. "Not... personally, no." He replied in a somewhat melancholy tone. Ture; as close as he was with his family, both immediate and extended, he did not know the true inhabitants of the town proper that well. "But if you leave a flyer on the noticeboard in town I am sure someone will pick you up on the offer." There wasn't exactly a lot to do in Port Byrne with the nearest large town with any decent shopping or exciting things to do being nearly an hour away. He was sure some parent would jump at the opportunity for cello lessons for their child so close by. "Or there are a few other small towns nearby as well where you might find some interest."

Taking a few steps back he moved towards the door his smile became easier and more light-hearted. "I better get started on bringing the rest of those boxes up for you," he began, pausing at the door. "You can just stay up here and unpack them if you'd like, I'll do all the heavy lifting." Heck, it was what he was here for and really he didn't consider it that heavy. But it better to get this out of the way so that it didn't get too late. There was still a lot of work to be done, from the looks of it. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he noticed all the still unpacked boxes. He could ask her about Julliard once it was over and, maybe, if he was feeling particularly brave and she seemed inclined to say yes, he could invite her camping.

It was a bit of a niche thing, cello, so Carys wasn't particularly surprised that Chase didn't have a list of potential clients off the top of his head. He seemed a bit downtrodden, but he gave her some potentially useful leads. It was a start, at the very least, and it was more than she had five minutes ago.

As Chase withdrew, she couldn't help but notice that he had cheered considerably. She wasn't sure what to make of that information, but she filed it away all the same. She considered protesting and helping with the boxes, but, well, wasn't this what she had asked him over for?

"Sounds like a plan," Carys nodded, privately grateful that she didn't have to lug boxes up ever more stairs. Taking everything down four flights of stairs back in New York had been hell.

They settled into a comfortable rhythm. Having someone else around kept her on track, stopped her from getting lost in the belongings she found as she unpacked. They were making great time. And then she'd found The Box. She'd forgotten what it had looked like, hadn't thought to mark it, and as her pocket knife revealed its contents, her blood had run cold.

Her mother beamed up at her, medal glinting against her chest, arms slung around the shoulders of her teammates, looking so vibrant. So alive. Carys stopped, heart screaming in her chest as she lifted out the photo. It struck her then, kneeling on the floor of her mother's childhood home, that she would never see her mother again. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Keep it together, not now, not now--

Little drops began to litter the glass of the photo, and Carys found she couldn't stem the tide any longer.