I hurried downstairs and tried the door, which thankfully opened, and flipped a light switch to reveal a hall much plainer than the one upstairs; there were paintings on the wall, but they were simpler— landscapes of empty fields and moonlit lakes.

Next to the first door, a small metal plaque read HOUSEKEEPER, and under it was a neatly typed label in a tiny frame: MRS. BYERSMITH. The paper was yellowed with age, and I guessed that Mrs. Byersmith was long gone. Dead, I thought, and a cold tingle went up my spine.

Curious, I pressed on the door, and it quietly opened. The room was spacious and austere, with a tiny kitchen area, a fireplace, a wooden table with two chairs, and a neatly made bed. Under the small window, with its short, ruffled white curtain, was a bookcase that was nearly empty, except for a paperbound telephone directory with yellowing pages.

My curiosity sated, I carried my bundle of sheets and pajamas into the corridor beyond.

Here, safely out of view of the family, function ruled over form. The floor was tiled with linoleum and the walls were bare of decorations. There were clocks, schedules, a wall calendar from 1964, and numerous faded posters reminding passersby to Serve with a Cheerful Heart and Take Care in All Tasks, Great and Small.

Now I looked in earnest for the laundry room. At the end of the hall—miracle of miracles—I found it. With a sigh of relief, I opened the washing machine and stuck the soiled items inside. Then I found a box of powdered laundry soap and sprinkled in what I hoped was a reasonable amount.

The machine looked ancient, but sturdy and clean and with mercifully few options to choose from. I turned the dial to REGULAR, pressed START, and prayed for the best. Water began to spray onto the sheets and pajamas, and soon they were being tossed in a sudsy bath.

It was out of my hands now.

All I had to do was fill the time until the clothes were ready for the dryer. Because this machine was about fifty years old and there was no digital display, I had no idea how long that would take. Thirty minutes? An hour?

I went back and began exploring the hall. There was a massive storeroom with mostly empty shelves and a mop leaning in the corner with its ropy head turning to dust on the floor.