Mira follows the boot-prints up the hill, each impression still sharp in the soft earth — whoever made them was heavy, or in a hurry, or both. The mill looms larger as she climbs, its stone walls dark with moss and age. The waterwheel churns despite the shallow creek below it, turning as though driven by something other than water. At the door — a thick slab of oak studded with iron bolts — the boot-prints stop. There is no handle, only a circular depression carved into the wood at chest height, the same strange lettering ringing its edge. Mira's palm is still tingling from the tree. She presses her hand flat against the depression and the wheel outside lurches, then stops. From somewhere deep inside the mill comes the sound of footsteps, and then a voice, low and careful: "You found it faster than I expected.", and something scrapes across a stone floor, moving toward her.