He's curious, when he's finished what he imagines his chores are, about what his life is like. A weaver with herbalist knowledge, that much became clear.
Who else has so much woven in their own home and the tools to weave with? Or the muscle memory of such things in such strength that Cade had to only touch the mortar before his hands were making some powder that, in a cup of water, helped with his chest's tension.
A heart issue, maybe? Something treatable, clearly, but he'll have to wait for his mind to catch up to the body or figure out what plants he's using and why. Otherwise, all he knows is that it's treatable and that means he might do something detrimental without realizing.
There aren't many items for cultivation, either.
He finds a jar under a cloth in a chest, which is full of stones and powders. He smiles at that. Lyan has family and he's now Lyan. They might be gone, at least he assumes, but that doesn't mean they'd leave their family with nothing.
He wonders about that family. Lyar and Pya, who are not in this home. Perhaps that's for the best. They'd be having a son who is not theirs in the same body as the old one.
With a sigh and a full-body shake, he draws himself out of such thoughts. He needs to focus.
He has supplies for maybe a week or two of food before he'd run out completely, which is decent for someone who clearly has only one income and saves money. It also means he can be frugal without someone getting too suspicious, he hopes. Then there's plenty of the tools and sturdy-made items he'd want, blankets and pillows, pots and pans and baskets, all sorts of things for weaving and cooking and other such things.
A perfect starting point for him.
Cultivation-wise, there is a thick mat for meditating, a copper mirror, an iron blade the length of his forearm, prayer beads, a small incense burner, and even a small jade pendant. Most of that is useful even if he doesn't decide to go cultivate.
Okay.
Okay.
You got this. You got this, Cade. It's fine! You're fine!
He drops onto the mat, completely exhausted in the way only emotions leave him. He is, decidedly, not fine.
Thinking hurts. Thinking hurts because thinking doesn't want to happen. His brain keeps trying to turn off, to do and not think, to think about other things first…
To avoid thinking about that which he really doesn't want to think about.
He can avoid it. He just needs to do something else! What else?
Uh, he did the chickens and the bees. He weeded the garden, not that it had many, and made sure they were all in good health. Did the dishes that, just like back home, are left after dinner to do in the morning. The floor shouldn't be swept until he's inside for the night, since he'll just bring more debris inside that way.
Lyan's muscle memory had refilled the lantern next to the door, aired out some bedding that now is folded more neatly than Cade would give his own, and also put a basket outside precisely between the garden and the coop.
Cade usually sleeps in his clothes if he's too tired, and his work starts too early to make the bed, going too late to the point he appreciates the easy slide under the covers. He doesn't think he's ever even cared about if he turns the light on outside when he's cooking on the weekends.
The basket is not something he has any ideas about what it might be for, unless the chickens lay the eggs directly into the basket or help pick the garden. At least Lyan knew, and now (hopefully) Cade can learn.
Well, that's the obvious chores. What next? What would Lyan do after the basic chores?
Weaving. The body would definitely remember how to weave.
So, he settles himself in front of the frame that he can guess is for weaving.
It is, given he suddenly gets that prompting, that muscle memory, to reach over and pick up some threads. The threads are waxy, likely actually waxed given both the world's technology and the bees outside. They are easy to pick up and fiddle with, tying height-wise on to the beams of the frame.
He has thinner fingers here, which is for the best. He doubts he'd have as easy a time with the threads if he still had his old hands. That's a perk, too.
Bees and a body that suits the setting.
Within only a few minutes, he's weaving tight rows of thread through the first strands. The flat sticks that help him lift certain ones tilt wide and thin, back and forth, the two alternating to let him go under and over easily. The third one is for pressing the rows down, tightening it so he can pack more in.
He thinks this might be a better form of meditation than the actual thing.
Back and forth, under and over. Tilt, pass, tilt back. Tilt, pass, tilt back.
He stops at a certain point, though he only knows it's certain because his hands stop and he looks up to find the sun is high in the sky. Well, that works.
This body also knows how to make food. It's simple, just rice and a few vegetables and a cup of water, but it fills him up and he's happy. He goes outside to stretch his legs, and he realizes that the garden, arranged how it is, creates a natural barricade even at high noon. He'd thought the effect was from the dimness of dawn, but instead it sticks.
Sighing deeply and putting his back to the house, he drinks the rest of the water and stares out.
There's a little covered area, built sturdy and with no obvious gaps. It travels from the small part of the house that pokes out, the top of the kitchen to the stone wall that surrounds the entire house completely shaded. The coop is just underneath, which would give coolness in heat and protection from wind and rain and snow during the cold.
There are four trees, one per each corner. The barks are grey and brown, the leaves different shapes, and several show signs of budding. Under their canopies, sprouts of green and blots of browns. Tall grasses and other plants line the stone walls, avoiding the shade of the canopies.
Further in, there are slightly shorter plants, flowering and bright and bushy. Right in the center, clover and mustard greens and cabbage plants. The effect is a cascade, a gentle slope down from the walls and the trees to the center area. He thinks that would be a better meditation point than anywhere inside. Maybe the mat is for when it's too cold to go outside.
His eyes catch on that basket, tight-woven and large…
And now full of yellow and green.
He moves over, pocketing the cup to free his hands, and crouches near the thing. It's full to the brim, all the plants of the garden harvest, or so it seems to him. He reaches a hand in, breathing deeply. The smell that hits is clean, warm in the way spices are and deep in the way nuanced blends are. His fingers feel soft leaves, springy but…
He smiles.
Of course the only word he can think of is 'crunchy'. Isn't that just how he is?