Being housekeeper is hard

   As a part of our deal, Zephyra gave me access to her personal library.

   It wasn’t just a shelf or two—it took up an entire room. There were a lot of books. Manuals, journals, technical blueprints, dusty old magic tomes, and even some completely random stuff like gardening guides. The ones that caught my attention most were the psychology books and mystery novels. I don’t really know why—maybe I just like to use my brain. Now that I think about it, I really liked playing chess with Zeno. Maybe that is also because of it?

   One of the books mentioned that observing the people around you on a daily basis improves your understanding of them. I don’t know why, but that line stuck with me. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe I just needed a hobby.

   That’s why I started writing a diary.

   It’s been a month since I started living here and to be honest, I’m still getting used to it.

   Life here is simple, mostly. I wake up early, unlike someone else in this house who refuses to get up in the morning or do most of the house chores, like cleaning for example. So I ended up taking care of that. I handle cleaning, laundry, organizing things… basically, I make sure the house doesn’t fall apart. 

   I didn't notice that the first day, probably because I was still confused, but after some time I have noticed, that this house was quite messy. Cleaning all that took me the whole day...  

   As I said, I take care of most of the stuff... 

   Except for the kitchen. 

   That was just a disaster.

   I tried to cook. 

   Once.  

   It was bad. 

   Really bad.

   Honestly, thinking about it still gives me flashbacks. 

   The smell... 

   Zephyra's face when she took that first bite... 

   It was bad enough to convince both of us that I should stay far away from the stove. The topic of my cooking became a taboo in this household...

   ...

   Anyway...

   Zephyra teases me from time to time, calling me her “little assistant” or acting like I’m her personal butler. She doesn’t even try to hide her laziness anymore. That whole “cool, collected inventor” act disappeared after the first week. 

   These days, she lounges around half the time, dragging herself from one nap to the next like she’s got no concept of responsibility outside of her machines. And when she’s not inventing or fiddling with some magical device, she’s mostly either drinking, sleeping in the most ridiculous positions imaginable.

   Once, I found her half-hanging off the couch with her face in a pillow and one leg still in a chair. Another time, she was lying face-down on the living room floor like someone had unplugged her mid-walk. Of course, it’s my job to carry her to bed when she passes out. 

   Oh, and I also have to change her into pyjamas while she snoozes away. I’d probably be more embarrassed, if it didn’t feel like I was dealing with a messy toddler.

   The days blur together sometimes. At this point, I feel more like a caretaker than anything else. Though, to be fair, I don’t hate it. I’ve got my own room, and life here is better than wherever I’d be otherwise

   When she told me that I would be her assistant, I thought that means helping in her inventions, but turns out I was wrong.

   Once, over dinner, I asked her, “Why aren’t you asking me to help you with your inventions?”

   She didn’t even look up from her plate. “Because you don’t have magic sense.”

   I blinked. “Magic sense?”

   That was the first time I heard the term. I didn’t really understand, so she explained.

   Apparently, it’s something everyone in this world has—a natural ability to sense mana in the air, and it’s essential for anyone working with magic-based machines or just anything connected to magic. Without magic sense, I wouldn’t be able to understand the flow of mana in the devices she creates. 

   And here I thought I would be able to use magic. I won’t hide that I got a little disappointed.

   “So,” she said with that usual teasing smile, “be a good boy and help me with housework.” 

   That pissed me off a little, not gonna lie. Especially, since I am already seventeen years old and she treats me like a kid all the time.  

   One of Zephyra’s biggest flaw is her love for alcohol. Every few nights, she drinks too much and passes out, leaving me to haul her to bed. I swear, she doesn’t know the meaning of moderation. There’s been more than one occasion where I’ve found her slumped over the table, her hair covering her face, or lying half off the couch. 

   If I had to summarize… she’s just Zephyra. 

   Lazy, half-drunk, who treats me like a kid all the time.

   But surprisingly when she works on her machines, she looks like professional. I have a theory that she uses all her energy for her work and regenerates for the rest of a day. At least that is how it looks for me.

   But lately… I’ve noticed something else.

   Every now and then—just for a second—she’ll look at me with this strange expression. A kind of quiet, almost sad look. She never says anything when it happens. She just stares for a moment, then goes back to normal like nothing happened.

   I didn’t understand why.

   Not until that day...