Let's talk about laundry.
It's one of those things that sounds innocent—wholesome, even. But in Atheria? Laundry is an ordeal.
First, you need water. Then heat it over a fire. Then stir your clothes in a bucket with soap made of goat fat. Then rinse it three times. Then wring it out by hand like you're punishing it for crimes.
And don't even get me started on drying. Clotheslines? Wind? Birds stealing your socks? It's a war.
So, after soaking my favorite hoodie in a soup of regret and questionable herbs for the third time, I decided:
Enough.
I went back to Earth, stopped time, and bought a compact, single-tub, solar-powered washing machine. (Bless those camping stores.) Lightweight, efficient, and—most importantly—no goat fat.
I lugged it back to Atheria, cleared out a little corner of the bathhouse, hooked up a water jug, and poured in Earth-brand lavender detergent.
The moment I heard that sweet, sweet whirrrrrrrr of clean, rotating peace, I nearly cried.
It worked.
It smelled nice.
And my hoodie didn't feel like it had been dried under a horse's saddle.
I was content.
…for exactly five minutes.
Until Lila opened the door, saw the machine spinning, and screamed.
"It's alive!"
"No—wait—it's just a washer—"
She fled down the hallway shouting something about "metal spirits devouring cloth demons."
Great.
By the time I'd finished my wash cycle, half the town had gathered outside the bathhouse with brooms, herbs, and a flute player. One priest was already drawing a salt circle.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"We're banishing the washer fiend," the priest declared. "We heard it growling!"
"It's not growling! That's just the rinse cycle!"
No one listened.
So I sighed, unplugged it, and carried the washing machine outside. "Behold," I said, "this is not a demon. It is the Whirling Box of Purification. It eats only dirt. Not souls."
Someone in the crowd gasped. "So it's a spirit purifier!"
…Honestly, sure. Close enough.
To prove it, I offered a demonstration. I tossed in a muddy towel, added water and detergent, and let it spin.
When the water turned brown and the towel came out clean, the crowd applauded.
"I never knew spirits could be this tidy," one woman whispered reverently.
Within an hour, people were lining up to offer their laundry to the "Blessed Box." I charged them a silver coin per load—not for the money, but to cover detergent and my growing patience tax.
By evening, the town had given the machine a name:
Whirrilda.
Yes. They named my washing machine.
Marius came by and offered to "guard the laundry relic" while I rested.
"It doesn't need a guard," I muttered.
"She spins for our sins," he replied solemnly.
I stared into the middle distance and wondered where I went wrong.
Still, I have to admit… it's working. Clothes are cleaner. People are happier. One merchant even brought his battle robe and said it "smelled of spring winds and divine renewal."
I might've added a dryer sheet.
Now, of course, someone asked me if there's a spirit for dishes too.
...Maybe I shouldn't have shown them the portable dishwasher.