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 [i]alive[/i]. 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. [i]Keep it together, not now, not now--[/i] 

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